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# LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 












































NEW YORK. 



D. APPLETON &;€©. 200 BROADWAY, 






TWO LIVES 


OR, 


TO SEE I AND TO BE. 


BY 

maria j. McIntosh, 

n 

AUTHOR OF “ CHARMS AND COUNTER-CHARMS,” “ AUNT KITTy’s TALES,” 
“ CONQUEST AND SELF-CONQUEST,” ETC. ETC. 


“ Do what all men, if they knew it, 

Could not choose but praise ; 

Then let no one know you do it, — 

Better price it pays.” 

Translation of Fred . Ruckerl’s Hundred Qua'rain*. 


EIGHT THOUSAND. 



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NEW YORK: 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

443 & 445 BROADWAY. 

1865. 


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TWO LIVES*. 


OR, 

TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


CHAPTER I. 

LIFE IN THE SOUTH. THE VOW. 

“ Two lovely berries moulded on one stem.” 

Midsummer Might's Dream. 

“ A mansion where domestic love 
And truth breathe simple kindness to the heart.” 

Mrs. Gilman. 

Beneficent Nature, how often does the heart of man, 
crushed beneath the weight of his sins or his sorrows, rise 
in reproach against thine unchanged serenity l 

We sin, and call on darkness to cover our shame, — but 
at morning hour the sun goes forth, “ rejoicing as a strong 
man to run a race.” We lay our loved ones in the earth ; 
and while we weep above their graves, the light shines 
merrily there, and calls forth the gay flowers of spring to 
deck the sod ; and we reproach thee because thou dost not, 
like us, struggle against the will of Universal Love, — be- 
cause thou dost not cease to give forth from thy mother- 
bosom food, and light, and warmth, to all thy children,— 
because, even while we murmur at thee, thou continuest 
to smile upon us and to send sweet and softening in- 
fluences into our hearts from thy serene aspect. 

It was feelings such as we have described which made 
1 * 


6 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


the young Grace Elliot draw her veil more closely around 
her, as she issued from her home to pay a parting visit to 
the newly-made grave of her father, accompanied by her 
scarce less bereaved and sorrowing cousin, Isabel Doug- 
lass. And surely never did impatient heart shut out a 
lovelier landscape than that home presented on this May 
morning. The verdant bank on which the house was built 
sloped gently down to a broad river on whose tranquil bo- 
som the sunbeams lay in a column of golden light, wooing 
the eye farther and farther on, till at the distance of five 
miles it was met by ocean’s wide expanse. If the glance 
was averted from this magnificent prospect, it rested upon 
oaks which had flung their gigantic arms above that spot 
before the memory of living man, and which still promised 
in their undecaying grandeur to wave their sombre drapery 
above many successive generations. Even when Grace 
looked sadly down she found the glad sun mirrored in the 
full cup of many a flower which Nature, prodigal of beau- 
ty, had strown at her feet, while, at every movement, her 
dress shook from some shrub the starry dews with which 
Night had robed it. 

In this abode of loveliness had Grace first seen the light, 
and here, at five years old, had Isabel found a home and a 
father with her mother’s brother, Mr. Elliot. Left a wid- 
ower in the prime of life, this gentleman had placed his 
household and his infant daughter under the matronly care 
of his elder sister, Miss Elliot, who had resided with him 
but a few months when the death of Isabel’s mother sent 
her too to claim an interest in the maiden’s kindly heart. 
Time had passed lightly over that quiet family. They 
were not gay, for the master of a mansion ordinarily gives 
the tone to his household, and Mr. Elliot could not be gay 
— the memory of his wife dwelling ever as a shadow at 
his side. Still it was a shadow of grace and beauty, mel. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


7 


lowing and subduing, but not obscuring the brightness of 
his life. He had ever a cheerful word for his children 
and a kindly smile for his dependants. 

Such w r as the serene atmosphere in which Grace and 
Isabel had grown to the dawn of womanhood — Grace being 
now fifteen and Isabel one year older. The first cloud 
that rose in their sky had burst in wild tempest over their 
heads. The father and the guardian had been stricken 
dow n in his strength, and they were now weeping over his 
grave. Yet not alone for him fell their tears. His death 
had been the signal for many sorrows. His will had com- 
mitted them during their minority to the charge of his only 
brother, who, having married a lady of New York, resided 
in that city. To-morrow they were to leave their beloved 
home in the warm, ' friendly South, for one in a colder 
clime, — and the dwellers in that clime for whose society 
they must exchange that of tHeir kind indulgent aunt, 
might they not prove that 

“ The cold in clime are cold in blood?” 

Even the servants who had been familiar to them for 
years — who had ministered to their childish wants, borne 
with their childish caprices, and shared their childish sports 
— claimed a place in their memories and their regrets. 
Arrived, however, at the grassy knoll surrounded by a 
white paling and shaded by pines and cedars, which had 
been for more than a century the burial-place of the El- 
liots, all were for a time forgotten, except him who lay 
within the little mound at their feet. What a rushing flood 
of memories overwhelm the heart at such moments ! How 
life-like are the pictures in which every varying expres- 
sion of those now unchanging features passes before us ! 
We remember the glad smile with which they welcomed 
us, and we feel that there is no joy in returning to a home 


8 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


where that is not — we recall the tender glances which 
soothed our childish griefs, and we are ready to submit tc 
any of life’s innumerable ills to win back to our darkened 
world that one beam of heavenly light — we see again the 
brow shadowed by some fault of ours, and our souls are 
bowed down with unutterable sorrow, and we cry to Heav- 
en ir_ our anguish for some voice from the world of spirits 
to assure us that the shadow has passed away. Grace El- 
liot sank on her knees beside her father’s grave, and sobbed 
with convulsive agony, while Isabel stood beside her in 
deep and overpowering, if less tempestuous grief. Alarm- 
ed at last by the wild and increasing agitation of Grace, 
she put her arm around her, and strove gently to draw her 
away. 

“ Let me alone, Isabel !” Grace exclaimed ; “ let me 
die here, for there are none left to love me now.” 

“ There are many left to love you, Grace ; for their 
sakes go with me — we will not go quite away, only go to 
yonder spring where you can bathe your swollen face, and 
you can come back again if you desire it.” 

Grace did not stir. 

“ Then, for his sake who would have been grieved to 
see you abandoning yourself thus to your sorrow, come 
with me, Grace,” said Isabel, subduing her voice to a rev- 
erential whisper ; and Grace rose, and leaning on her 
cousin, suffered her to lead her away. 

They passed beyond the enclosure to a slight elevation, 
from whose summit grew a - lofty magnolia shading a spring 
of the clearest water. Near this spring Isabel seated her 
cousin, and placing herself at her side, supported her head 
upon her shoulder, while she dipped her hand in the cool 
fount and pressed it to her burning brow. For some time 
Grace remained quite still, with closed eyes — then, her 
features becoming suddenly convulsed again, she sobbed 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


ft 


out, “ Oh ! it is bitter to feel that there are none left to 
love you.” 

“ You cannot feel that, dear Grace,” said Isabel, sooth- 
ingly, “ remember our kind aunt.” 

“ But we leave her to-morrow.” 

“ Yes ; but then we go to another uncle and aunt, who, 
I do not doubt, will be very kind to us.” 

“ I did not speak of kindness ; strangers may be kind to 
us, but they cannot love us, and my grief is that I shall be 
separated from all that have known and loved me.” And 
with somewhat of petulance in her manner, Grace raised 
her head from her cousin’s shoulder, and withdrew herself 
from her supporting arm. 

Isabel’s face flushed, and an expression of wounded feel- 
ing passed over it. It was gone, however, in a moment — 
resentment to his child could not exist so near her uncle’s 
grave — and she drew Grace again to her side, as she 
asked, “ Will you be so separated while I am with you ?” 

“ You did not say any thing of yourself,” said Grace, 
evasively. 

“ What could I say that you did not already know, 
dear Grace ? Have we not played together, and studied 
together, had the same dear friends, and shared the same 
joys and sorrows ? and how can we help loving each other 
dearly ?” 

Isabel kissed her cousin fondly, and an expression of 
pleasure — almost a smile — stole over the features of Grace, 
as nestling closer to the bosom on which she rested, she 
said softly, “ Promise always to love me so, dear Isabel, 
and I shall not mind going away.” 

“ I do promise, dear Grace, to love you always as a 
true sister. And now let us go home, for Aunt Nancy’s 
sake — she was so much afraid that this visit would make 
you ill. Come, dear Grace, — come, for my sake.” 


10 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


Grace was always subdued by tenderness, and though 
she turned her tearful eyes towards the burial-ground and 
uttered a reluctant “ O Isabel ! — must we go?” she offered 
no resistance to the gentle force which drew her from her 
seat and guided her towards her home. 

Aunt Nancy, — as Isabel and Grace had been accus- 
tomed to call Miss Elliot, — was the very embodiment of all 
kindly and gentle feelings. The years which had changed 
the soft, rich brown of her luxuriant hair into gray, and 
destroyed the fine proportions of her once slender and 
graceful form, had not dimmed the light of her clear blue 
eye, or stolen from her countenance its expression of con- 
tentment and benevolence, the impress of a mind grateful 
for her own lot, and desirous to extend the happiness she 
enjoyed to others. Her brother’s death had been a deep 
affliction to her, yet scarcely, perhaps, harder to endure 
than the approaching parting with her nieces, the nurslings 
of her love, for whom, for more than twelve years, she had 
lived. Had the proposal to send them away been made 
by her brother during his life, she would have opposed it 
strongly, though aware that in their native state, Georgia, 
at that period, the requisites to the completion of an accom- 
plished education could with difficulty be commanded. 
But the wishes of the dead were sacred in her eyes, and 
though the preparations for their departure, which had 
engaged her on the morning of their visit to the family 
burial-place, had kept vividly before her for hours the 
thought of her coming loneliness, no murmur had mingled 
with her regret. In the presence of Isabel and Grace, 
Miss Elliot had hitherto commanded herself to speak 
cheerfully, but many tears had fallen in secret at the 
thought of the cold and distant home to which she was 
about to consign them. For Grace especially had she sor- 
rowed, — not that her love for her was greater, but that she 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


1) 


thought her less able to bear even the shadow of unkind, 
ness. 

Never had Isabel been made to feel herself an alien to 
the hearts that had adopted her. Often had the stranger, 
entertained by Mr. Elliot, been surprised to hear one of 
the two lovely children sporting around him, call him uncle. 
That one word was the only visible distinction between the 
child born in his house and her who had found a shelter 
there from the desolation of her own home. Yet Mr. 
Elliot could not but feel a deeper love for the child of his 
own gentle wife, who smiled upon him with her soft eyes, 
and spoke to him in her very tones ; and Miss Elliot re- 
garded Grace with that peculiar tenderness felt by a mother 
for the youngest and feeblest of her offspring — a feeling 
engendered by that delicacy of constitution which caused 
the friends of Grace to experience, for years, the most 
trembling anxiety for her health, and even for her life. 
The same kind words were spoken to Isabel and to Grace, 
but when they were addressed to the latter, the voice as- 
sumed a tenderer tone — the same affectionate looks were 
turned on them, but they lingered longest upon Grace. 
Even their nurses, if there was a contest between the chil- 
dren for a toy, would say, “ Gib ’em to your cousin, Miss 
Isabel — you won’t fret your poor, sick cousin.” 

As Grace grew older, her constitution acquired vigor, 
and now all remains of its early feebleness seemed to have 
passed away ; but the gentle tones and melting looks and 
yielding love had become a habit to those around her, and 
a necessity to her. Child of the sun, she was chilled by 
a passing shadow. 

There was nothing in what we have described to check 
the young, warm impulses of Isabel. She had never been 
repulsed from the arms which embraced her cousin — cold 
unkindness had never forced a tear to her, sunny eyes. 


12 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


If she sometimes saw that her cousin was an object of 
greater consideration than herself, she also saw that it wai 
for a reason which commended itself to her understanding, 
and won the assent of her generous heart — she was a 
sufferer. To this claim Isabel yielded without compul- 
sion, and thus the same circumstances which made con- 
stant demonstrations of tenderness necessary to Grace, 
rendered Isabel independent of them. To her, love was 
like the air of Heaven — invisible, intangible, it yet encir- 
cled her soul, and she knew it, for in it was her life ; but 
for Grace its depths must be stirred, and soft breezes must 
ever assure her of its presence. Alas ! that those gentle 
breezes should ever become a wild and desolating tem- 
pest ! 

Miss Elliot had seen Isabel and Grace depart on the sad 
visit of the morning with reluctance, and when they pro- 
posed, in the afternoon, to walk to that part of the plan- 
tation on which the houses inhabited by the negroes 
on Mr. Elliot’s estate were situated, she strenuously op- 
posed it. 

“ I cannot consent to it, my dear children,” she said, 
“ you both need rest and quiet before you set out on your 
journey. Your head is burning now, Grace, and any far- 
ther agitation will make you ill. After you are gone, I 
will go around to all the negroes and bid them good-by 
for you.” 

She had drawn Grace to her bosom, and tears shone in 
the eyes of both at the thought of how soon that time would 
arrive. 

“ But Aunt Nancy,” said Isabel, “ we promised Maum 
Hagar to see her again before we went — if you do not like 
to have Grace go, I will go alone and tell her — ” 

“ I think I ought to go,” interposed Grace ; “ I may 
nevei see her again.” 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


13 


“ Then, my darlings, I will go with you,” said Aunt 
Nancy, whose kindly nature could not oppose itself to such 
a reason. 

The negro houses were about half a mile distant from 
their home, and they could just catch a glimpse of the set- 
ting sun through the rich foliage of surrounding trees when 
they reached them. The first in the group was that occu- 
pied by Maum Hagar, an aged woman who had teen for 
several years quite blind, and by one of her grand-daugh- 
ters who attended on her. The old woman was sitting in 
the warm May air before her door, clad in a clean though 
coarse wrapper and petticoat, and wearing on her head a 
handkerchief striped with blue — not disposed in the turban- 
like fashion common to the younger servants, but knotted 
beneath the chin. Her eyes were open, and there was 
nothing in their appearance that indicated blindness. As 
she heard approaching footsteps, she turned her face in the 
direction whence they came — a smile passed over her face 
a moment after, and she said with evident pleasure, “ ’Tis 
my good young ladies come to see ole Maum Hagar for de 
last time.” 

“ For the last time before we go away, Maumer,” an- 
swered Grace, as she laid her small, white hand in the 
dark-colored one stretched out to her, — “ but we are coming 
back again in four years, and I want to know what we 
shall bring for you.” 

“ Ah, my missis ! before four years go, Hagar hope to 
be where she’ll neber hab no more want.” 

“ Do you want any thing now, Maum Hagar ?” asked 
Miss Elliot kindly. 

“ No, missis, not’in’ — not’in’ ’cept sometimes to go to 
my rest — so many handsome, rich, strong people, all gone 
before, and here ole wortless Hagar yet, cumb’rin’ de 
ground.” 


2 


14 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


“ Don’t talk so sadly, Maumer,” said Isabel, “ you know 
we all love you, and Grace and I would be grieved indeed 
if we thought we were never to see you again.” 

“ My good young missis, dat must be as de Lord will, 
and we wont griebe for him will.” 

A few minutes after, the old woman placed her hand on 
the head of Grace, and then passing it slowly over her 
face, said, “ Ah, Miss Grace, you bery like your poor ’ma 
— jist sich long curly hair she been hab. Well, you 
couldn’t be like a better or a handsomer lady — I often see 
her sweet smile, and I tink she must hab dat same smile 
now in Heaben. Miss Isabel’s de tallest yet,” she contin- 
ued, raising her other hand to Isabel’s face, “ and I tink 
she fabor de Elliots — don’t she, Miss Nancy ?” 

“ I think she does,” said Miss Elliot. 

“Well ! you’re like a good family, and a kind and a 
handsome one too, my dear child. You been both good 
young ladies to me — de Lord bless you both, and make 
His good word what you read so often to ole Hagar your 
comfort ; and if I neber hear your sweet voices here 
agen, may I hear ’em singing God’s praises in Heaben. 
Amen.” 

The old woman’s sightless balls were lifted to the sky, 
and tears rolled down her cheeks, while the two girls sobbed 
aloud. As she concluded, she raised a hand of each to her 
lips, and Aunt Nancy, saying to her that she would see 
her again to-morrow, led them away. 

As the evening passed on, a painful oppression lay upon 
Miss Elliot’s heart. She became silent, and her looks, 
tender and mournful, rested now on Grace and now on 
Isabel, but they lingered longer on the first. The sound 
of the horn summoning the negroes of the plantation to 
their house of prayer, seemed to rouse her from her long 
reveryj and after glancing at the mantel clock, which 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


id 


pointed to the hour of nine, she rose and rang a small bell. 
Almost immediately, the servants employed about the 
house, twelve or fourteen in number, — some with heads 
blanched by age, and others at the very opening of life, — 
entered, bringing with them a bench, on which they seated 
themselves. Isabel had placed on a table before her aunt 
a large Bible. Miss Elliot drew it towards her, and read 
one of those psalms in which David pours forth in strains 
at once lofty and touching, his sorrow and his faith — his 
disappointment in all earthly expectation, and his hope and 
trust in God. She closed the book, and all, servants and 
mistresses, knelt together before Him who is no respecter 
of persons ; and she, who since Mr. Elliot’s death had 
been a priestess in that household, offered up, in the name 
of all, thanksgiving and praise to Him who had pro- 
tected them through the day, and earnest prayer for His 
continued guardianship. Especially did she commend to 
His fatherly guidance those who were going far from them. 
The feelings whose expression to man had been so care- 
fully repressed, were now laid bare before Him to whom 
it is our delightful privilege to confess our sins, and reveal 
our sorrows — our “ High Priest, who can be touched with 
a feeling of our infirmities.” She prayed for God’s com- 
passion on the human love which clung so closely to His 
gifts, that it feared* to trust them for a season again to His 
keeping. In the simplest language, — for Aunt Nancy 
pretended to no scholarship, — she entreated Him to go with 
their loved ones, to fulfil to them His own gracious promise 
that He would be a Father to the fatherless, to guard them 
from all evil, but, above all, from sin. “ Our love would 
cry, Father ! let light and gladness be ever around them ; 
but if Thou in Thy wisdom shouldst encompass them with 
darkness, be Thou still a light within their hearts, and 
make Thy word a lamp unto their feet.” She who thus 


16 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


presented the desires of her own heart and of every other, 
in that little assemblage, had found strength in prayer ; 
her voice, at first low and faltering, became composed, 
though deeply earnest, while the objects of her supplication 
knelt weeping beside her, and more than one sob from the 
servants’ bench told that the feelings she expressed had 
found an echo there. 

Immediately after the evening devotions, Grace retired 
for the night. Miss Elliot accompanied her to her room, 
and dismissing her usual attendant, assisted her to undress. 
How many tender associations were connected with that 
simple act ! Memory pictured Grace as she lay, long 
years ago, a helpless infant in her arms, with that same 
cherub smile which still lighted her face in hours of joy, 
dimpling her round, fair cheek, and with those soft blue 
eyes pleading for love, even as now they seemed to do ; 
and as she held her to her bosom and kissed her tenderly, 
in answer to that plea, her heart tremblingly asked when 
and how they should meet again. 

Isabel was still in the parlor in which they had spent the 
evening when her aunt returned there. She had removed 
the candles to another room, and stood at a window look- 
ing out upon the landscape lighted by the soft beams of 
the young May moon.” Absorbed in her own thoughts, 
Miss Elliot stood beside her before she was aware of her 
entrance. 

“ Oh, Aunt Nancy !” she exclaimed, “ how I long foi 
one glance at the book of fate, just to see whether, when 
Grace and I return to our home four years hence, we shall 
find every thing here exactly as we leave it.” 

“ Is it quite certain that Grace and you will return four 
years hence ?” 

“ As certain as our lives. You know, by my uncle's 
will, we are to be both considered of age inthat time ; and 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


17 


when once we are free to act as we please, what can hin- 
der our return V 1 

“ Your own pleasure ; you may not then desire to 
come.” 

“ Aunt Nancy ! Can you believe that we shall so soon 
forget our earliest friend, and this dear, beautiful home !” 

As Isabel spoke, she took her aunt’s hand, and drawing 
it through her arm, held it pressed close against her heart. 

“ No, my child,” answered Miss Elliot, with emotion, 
“ I do not fear that you can forget us, but you may find 
dearer friends and a more beautiful home.” 

“ Look there !” said Isabel, pointing from the window, 
“ and acknowledge the last to be impossible ; and for the 
first, ask yourself, Aunt Nancy, whether four years are 
likely to erase the impressions of twelve.” 

“ Those twelve years were years of childhood ; their 
traces were light and feeble, compared with the deep, ear- 
nest emotions of womanhood, on which you are just enter- 
ing. But it is not your feelings to me that occupy my 
thoughts and awaken my deepest anxiety now, Isabel. 
Your love is very precious to me, but I can leave that, as 
well as all other earthly good that concerns myself only, to 
God’s disposal. It is your happiness, — yours and Grace’s, 
— that I find it hard to commit to Him. In the next four 
years, that happiness, as far as earth is concerned, may be 
decided — nay, the associations you form in those years 
may extend their influence into eternity.” Miss Elliot 
paused for a moment, as if overcome by the vision that 
presented itself to her view ; then, clasping Isabel to her 
bosom, she cried, “ Oh, Isabel ! how can I leave you with 
strangers during these years !” 

“ God will go with us, Aunt Nancy,” said Isabel softly, 
her cheerful, brave spirit subdued to somewhat of awe by 
the emotion of her usually gentle, quiet aunt. 

2 * 


18 


TWO LIVES . OR, 


“ Thank you, my child, for recalling to me my only 
comfort, and promise me, Isabel, that you will seek His 
blessing, earnestly, constantly.” 

“ I will,” whispered Isabel, — her head still resting on 
that kindly bosom. 

“ Then I need not fear for you, Isabel, for He is ever 
found of those who seek Him ; but, indeed, my apprehen- 
sions have ever been less for you than for Grace — she* is 
so helpless, so dependent ; w r hat will she do among stran- 
gers ?” 

“ I shall be with her, Aunt Nancy.” 

“ True ! and you must love her and watch over her very 
tenderly, Isabel ; her father was very good to you.” 

“ Good, indeed! Was I not as his own child to him 
while he lived, and has he not provided most generously 
for my future wants ? Oh, Aunt Nancy ! I never was 
half grateful or affectionate enough to him while he lived,” 
cried the weeping Isabel, with a sudden access of that re- 
morseful tenderness with which the dead are often remem- 
bered. 

“ Then, Isabel, make it up by your devotion to his dar- 
ling Grace, and his spirit will bless you ; you can thus 
repay all that either he or I have done for you.” 

Isabel’s was a nature not easily wrought to the expres 
sion of strong emotion, but it was capable of a generous 
and lofty enthusiasm which, once excited, set at defiance 
all the dictates of a selfish reserve. Now, raising her 
clasped hands and streaming eyes upward, she exclaimed, 
“ Here, then, Aunt Nancy, where you and my beloved 
uncle received me and sheltered me from every breath of 
unkindness, do I promise to devote myself to your Grace, 
with more than a sister’s love. If she be sick or in sor- 
row, I will nurse and sooth her so tenderly that she will 
dream you are beside her; her happiness shall be as dear 


TO SEEM AND TO HE. 


19 


to me as my own — nay, dearer ; for remembering that I 
owe all to her father, I will hold no possession too valua. 
ble, no feeling too powerful, no hope too dear, to be relin- 
quished, if her happiness demand the sacrifice.” 

“ Hush ! hush !” exclaimed Miss Elliot, painfully im- 
pressed by the strength of Isabel’s language and the ear- 
nestness of her manner. 

“ The promise is made, dear aunt, in the presence of 
God, to you and to the dead,” said Isabel, solemnly. She 
felt that a vow was upon her soul. It was a vow to be re- 
membered long after, amid tears more bitter than any she 
had this day shed. 


CHAPTER II. 

“ Hence, vain deluding joys, 

The brood of folly, without father bred ! 

How little you bested, 

Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys.” 

Milton. 

“ 1 am always sorry, Matilda, to interfere in any way 
with your enjoyments, but you must feel the utter impro- 
priety of a party in our house at present — so soon after my 
brother’s death, and when we are expecting to receive his 
orphan daughter.” 

“ It is because we expect your nieces so soon that I de 
sire to have the party over at once ; I should otherwise 
have been quite willing to wait a few weeks longer. As 
to your brother’s death rendering it improper, I must say, 
Mr. Elliot, that I do not agree with you. If I had put on 


20 


TWO LIVES OR, 


mourning it would certainly ; but, as you dispensed with 
my wearing that, I did not think it necessary to decline 
invitations, and of course that which did not prevent my 
accepting invitations cannot be pleaded as an excuse for 
my declining to return them.” 

Mr. Elliot looked annoyed, but turned to his newspaper, 
and sipped his chocolate in silence. 

“ How soon do you think your nieces can be here ?” 
asked his wife. 

“ They were to sail on the twentieth. The average 
length of voyages from Savannah at this season is eight 
days.” 

“ By the twenty-eighth then they will probably be here, 
and this is the seventeenth. Suppose I send out my invi- 
tations for Tuesday next, the twenty-second. It will re- 
quire rapid work to get all my arrangements made by that 
time, but I would make any exertion rather than wound 
the feelings of poor Grace. I cannot disappoint those who 
have a right to expect a party from me, but I will have it 
over, and all signs of it cleared away, before the girls ar- 
rive. Will that do ?” And Mrs. Elliot, who was never 
satisfied with herself when acting against her husband’s 
expressed opinion, though her dissatisfaction seldom led her 
to sacrifice to his approval her pleasures or her popularity, 
asked this question with real anxiety, which was expressed 
both in her tone and manner. Mr. Elliot’s face flushed for 
a moment, and he looked up, probably with the intention 
of expostulating again on the propriety of giving the party 
at all, but a glance at his wife’s earnest countenance 
seemed to change his purpose, and he replied, “ If the 
party must be given, it had certainly better be as early as 
that. ’ 

“ Then I will set about writing my invitations at once 
and Mrs. Elliot sprang up and pushed her chair from the 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


21 


table, but paused to ask, “ Shall I give you another cup oi 
chocolate V* 

“ No,” said Mr. Elliot, with a sigh, as he too rose ; and 
putting his paper in his pocket, went off to Wall-street, 
where, in the exciting game of buying and selling stocks, 
he was soon able to dismiss from his mind the annoyances 
of home. 

Subjected to no restraint in his boyhood or early youth 
except that of his kind elder brother, William -Elliot had 
lived till twenty-eight, solely for pleasure. That his 
pleasures were not of a degrading character was the result 
rather of the pure tastes fostered by the associations of his 
childhood than of any firmness of principle. At twenty- 
eight, during a summer passed in New York, he met, loved, 
wooed and won, a beauty and an heiress — Matilda Stuart. 
His wife had passed the first winter of their wedded life 
with him in Georgia, on an estate inherited from his father. 
Though gratified by the cordiality of her reception, and 
amused for a while by the novel aspect which life presented 
to her there, the informal hospitalities and simple pleasures 
of her new abode soon became insupportably tedious to 
one who had resided wholly in a city where society was 
regarded rather as a medium of display than as a source 
of enjoyment. Mrs. Elliot found little difficulty in per- 
suading her husband to sell his property in Georgia to his 
brother, and to make his home in New York. For some 
months longer they continued to sport together through the 
flowery paths of life ; but Mr. Elliot, at length, grew 
weary of soulless pleasures. His really affectionate heart 
pined for the dear delights of home — home such as he had 
known in his boyhood, where love smoothed the rugged 
path of duty and grew brighter for the smile with which 
she repaid his efforts. The birth of a son strengthened * 
hese yearnings of the heart. He had ascended almost to 


22 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


the summit of the hill of life — he was now thirty — and hf 
paused to look back upon his path. The retrospect did not 
please him, and he would gladly have surrounded his boy 
with influences adapted to cherish and unfold the higher 
qualities of his nature, to mould him into something nobler 
than a lover of pleasure or leader of ton. But he sought 
in vain for sympathy in these views from his brilliant and 
pleasing, but unthinking wife. Gradually, these opposing 
feelings led them into different paths. Mr. Elliot found in 
mercantile life sources of greater interest than the chase 
of the ephemera which had ceased to please him, and Mrs 
Elliot continued to'dazzle her acquaintances by the splen 
dor of her furniture, her equipage and her jewels. Sho 
really loved her kind and indulgent husband, and always 
intended at some future time to live more in accordance 
with his tastes, but, at the period of her introduction to the 
reader, that time was still the future. For a long time she 
excused her tardy compliance with Mr. Elliot’s wishes, or 
rather her postponement of them, by the necessity of keep- 
ing up her acquaintance with the gay world for her son’s 
sake. “ A few years hence,” she was accustomed to say, 
“ and Marion will want an introduction to life. His father 
has become such a hermit that he must be indebted to me 
for this, and having given it, I shall myself retire from the 
scene.” Yet Marion had already been introduced to life, 
and though only twenty-two, needed, in his own opinion, 
no pilot through its devious ways, and still his mother con- 
tinued his companion there. 

Perhaps somewhat of his mother’s love of display, united 
to his father’s demand for deeper and more abiding objects 
of interest, had directed Marion Elliot’s taste to military 
life, though he himself referred that taste solely to the in- 
fluence of his older cousin, Walter Stuart. Whatever 
may have been the cause, his predilection was so decided 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


23 


that it overbore the feeble opposition offered to it by his 
doting parents, and having been educated at West Point, 
he was now a lieutenant in the army. His first service in 
this character had been in a distant frontier fort to which 
he had been ordered at his own solicitation — solicitation 
made with his father’s perfect approval, Mr. Elliot con- 
sidering the d6sagr£mens of such a position as more than 
counterbalanced by its securing for his son an association 
with his cousin, Captain Stuart, who had been stationed at 
this fort for several years. Both Captain Stuart and Lieu- 
tenant Elliot had lately received orders, transferring them 
to a post nearer home, and Captain Stuart desiring to visit 
his long unseen mother before entering on his new com- 
mand, they had solicited and obtained a three months’ 
leave of absence, one month of which had already expired. 

Far different had been the early experience of life allot- 
ted to these two cousins. While Marion Elliot had been 
cradled on roses and borne by prosperous breezes over an 
unruffled sea, Walter Stuart had been compelled to strug- 
gle with a man’s cares in his early boyhood. He was 
scarcely fourteen when his father died, the victim of de- 
spondency occasioned by his failure in business. Destined 
to the army, for which his adventurous spirit peculiarly 
fitted him, Walter would now have relinquished his own 
cherished plans and sought a clerkship, that his salary 
might enable him immediately to aid his mother in pro- 
viding for the two young brothers and the almost infant 
sister, for whose support and education her slender means 
seemed wholly inadequate, but Mrs. Stuart was too gener- 
ous and loved her son too truly to permit him to make 
what she knew would be so painful a sacrifice. She bent 
all her efforts to the completion of his education, and with *. 
the assistance of Mr. Elliot and such friends as she coti?** 
influence, young Walter was entered at West Point befori 


re 


24 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


he was fifteen. It was a noble sight — that young boy 
checking his own quick impulses and resisting alike the 
solicitations and the jeers of his companions, that by deny- 
ing himself the pleasures dear to his age, he might save 
from his little allowance something for his mother ; and 
that, by unceasing study, he might hasten the time when 
he could yet more largely contribute to her comfort. Such 
struggles with fortune had given him even then a gravity 
beyond his years, and now at twenty-five, there were few 
men of twice his age who looked on life with a calmer eye, 
or brought to its encounter a more resolved and steadfast 
spirit. He loved Marion Elliot, for he knew him to be 
brave and true, and Marion repaid his love with enthusi- 
asm, though his light, careless nature, stood more in awe 
of the rebuke which he sometimes read on his cousin’s 
stern brow than of any other earthly penalty. 

The five days immediately succeeding the conversation 
with which this chapter opens, were passed by Mrs. 
Elliot in all the bustle of hurried preparation for the 
party on which she had decided. She did not hurry in 
vain. If her rooms had been in disorder, and her ser- 
vants out of temper — if her husband had been obliged to 
dine at a restaurateur’s, and she had herself gone nightly 
to bed almost too weary to sleep, during all this time, she 
was rewarded when, on the evening of the fifth day, lean- 
ing on the arm of her handsome and gay-hearted son, she 
passed through her suite of rooms and saw by the brilliant 
gas-lights the elegance of their decorations and the ex- 
quisite taste of their whole arrangement. 

“ I certainly have seen nothing so beautiful this season. 
Contoit has surpassed himself,” she said, as she turned 
from the supper-table. “ I wish your father would come 
,in at once and receive the company with me,” she added, 
^as a shade stole over her still smooth, fair brow. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


25 


“ He has promised to come in, later in the evening, for 
a little while ; even that will be a painful effort to him, I 
fear, so you must be satisfied with it, mia bella madre ,” 
replied Marion, as he proudly led his mother forward to 
the room in which she was to receive her guests. 

And soon other lovely forms came gliding in. Fair 
and beautiful was all that met the eye, harmonious and 
agreeable all that fell on the ear. But to some spirit-seer 
how changed would have been the aspect and tone of all ! 
To him, the golden tissue, the silken robe, and the spark- 
ling jewels, would have been often as the velvet pall with 
which in our pride we cover our dead, for, beneath them, 
he would have seen the already unfolding germ of death. 
Through the gay smile wreathing the bright young lip 
there would have been apparent to him the bitterness ot 
disappointed hope and crushed affection ; while in the 
sportive word, the light laugh, and festive song, his ear 
would have detected an under and deeper tone of sneering 
envy, taunting malice, and withering scorn. But there 
were no spirit-seers at Mrs. Elliot’s, and the satisfaction 
that sat on every brow, and the compliments that flowed 
from every lip, gratified her utmost expectations. 

The gayety was at its height, and the mantel clock 
had just given that one silvery stroke which announced 
the half hour after ten, when a carriage drove to Mr. 
Elliot’s door laden with trunks and packages. The coach- 
man opened the door, and an elderly gentleman descended 
from it. “ Are you sure this is the house, coachman V* 
he asked, as he gazed in surprise on the illuminated 
windows. 

“ Look for yourself, sir ; isn’t that street, and 

this here Broadway ; and didi/t you tell me it was the 
corner you wanted ?” 

“ Well ! well ! ring the bell and talce off the baggage/ I 
3 


26 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


said the gentleman, as he handed out two ladies in dee} 
mourning. 

They advanced towards the door, and finding it open 
entered. Grace was pale and agitated well nigh t< 
fainting by the idea of meeting strangers, and strangers 
whose very sympathy would recall all her sorrow. She 
leaned on Isabel, who, scarce more composed, yet exerted 
her failing strength and spirits to support her. Thus 
absorbed in their own emotions, they scarcely noticed 
whither they were following their conductor, until, with a 
sudden recoil, he exclaimed, “ There must be some mis- 
take ; this cannot -be the house.” 

At the same time a loud burst of music startled them, 
and looking up, they found themselves at the door of a 
room brilliantly lighted and filled with gayly dressed 
ladies and gentlemen, some of whom were at that moment 
taking their places for cotillions. Just beside them, lean- 
ing against the open door, was a gentleman of graceful 
and commanding form. Turning at the exclamation of 
heir companion, he revealed a face full of a composed 
gravity that seemed almost as little in keeping with the 
scene as the mourning garments on which he gazed with 
such astonishment. Isabel Douglass, with quicker percep- 
tion than one of her companions, and more calmness than 
the other, had already suspected somewhat of the truth, 
and the indignation she felt at what appeared to her almost 
an insult to the dead, had restored the color to her cheek, 
and given to her form its usual dignified carriage. Grace, 
on the contrary, was clinging to her, yet shrinking back 
as she cried, “ Oh ! let us go from here ; this is not my 
uncle’s.” 

Through the crape veil that floated around her, her 
golden hair gleamed brightly, as it fell in its own natural 
ringlets over her neck and shoulders while its glittei 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


27 


contrasted strangely with a face from whose beautiful 
and delicate features every tinge of color seemed to have 
departed. The gentleman was Walter Stuart, and he 
had needed but an instant to unravel the mystery of the 
scene. Scarcely had they observed him, when, stepping 
forward, he exclaimed, “ Miss Elliot and Miss Douglass, I 
am sure ; permit me, ladies, to lead you to your uncle — 
he is not here. 5 ’ 

Before his offer could be accepted, before he had even 
ceased to speak, another voice from the hall in which they 
stood, was heard crying, “ My dear children ! come with 
me.” Grace started, turned quickly around, and fell 
fainting into the arms of Mr. Elliot, whose voice was sc 
singularly like his brother’s, that her already failing 
senses were unable to bear the surprise of hearing again 
tones which she had believed life could never restore tc 
her. He lifted her light form to his bosom, and saying to 
Isabel, “ Come with us, my child,” he led the way to a 
distant room in which he had spent the evening, alone. 
Isabel paused for a moment to look for the gentleman who 
had accompanied them, but satisfied that they were with 
the friends to whose protection he had promised to commit 
them, he had already disappeared, and she followed her 
uncle. Having laid Grace upon a sofa, Mr. Elliot turned 
to Isabel. Something like shame burned in his usually 
pale cheek as he met her eye, but he drew her to his 
bosom, and kissing her tenderly, said, with a faint smile, 
“ I grieve to receive you thus ; but we must not expect 
others to feel just as we do.” 

Grace had not yet begun to evince any return of con. 
sciousness, when the door opened and Captain Stuart en- 
tered with a lady in mourning, of plain features, but 
singularly pleasing countenance, leaning on his arm. 

“ I thought my mother might be of some sorvice to 


28 


TWO LIVES . OR, 


you,” he said to Mr. Elliot, and then withdrew from the 
sofa around which the rest were gathered, though he could 
not avert his eyes from the fair young face and girlish 
form which lay there, all unconscious of his gaze. 

“ Stay, my dear,” exclaimed Mrs. Stuart to Isabel, who 
had just procured a glass of water, and dipping her trem- 
bling fingers into it, was about to sprinkle it in her cousin’s 
face ; “ I think we had better take advantage of Miss 
Elliot’s insensibility, to remove her beyond the sound of 
festivities which will doubtless be painful to her. What 
say you, Mr. Elliot? Walter has detained the carriage 
that brought your nieces, and in a few minutes we can be 
at my house.” 

“ I cannot leave Grace,” said Isabel, decidedly. 

“I hope you will not; I shall be happy to have you 
both with me,” and Mrs. Stuart smiled so kindly upon 
Isabel, that the ice gathering around her heart was thawed, 
and she bent over Grace to hide the tears that streamed 
from her eyes. At this moment there was a louder burst 
of music, and she exclaimed, “ Pray, uncle, let us go ; 
those sounds will kill Grace.” 

“ Let me take her to the carriage,” said Captain Stuart, 
coming forward, and before any one could object, he had 
lifted the now half-conscious Grace from the sofa and borne 
her out. Mr. Elliot hastening before him, ordered a ser- 
vant to shut the doors they were to pass, and Mrs. Stuart 
and Isabel quickly followed. Entering the carriage first, 
Mrs. Stuart received Grace from her son, and Isabel, as 
she took her seat beside her, clasped her cousin’s hand and 
said, soothingly, “ Do not be frightened, Grace, I am with 
you.” 

“ Did my uncle carry me just now ?” questioned Grace, 
faintly. 

“ Our uncle is here,” answered Isabel, evasively, aa 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


29 


Mr. Elliot placed himself opposite to her in the car* 
riage. 

Captain Stuart mounted the box with the driver, and the 
horses were instantly in rapid motion. The carriage left 
Broadway for a more dimly lighted and narrower street, 
and rolling rapidly onwards, stopped in a few minutes be- 
fore a small two-story house. The street was dark, but 
there shone a cheerful light from the windows, screened 
only by white muslin shades. Captain Stuart sprang to 
the ground, and opening the door of the house with his 
private key, returned to the carriage to offer his services 
again in carrying Grace, but Mr. Elliot had already taken 
her in his arms. Isabel moved on at her cousin’s side as 
if loth to leave her for a moment. On entering the house, 
Mr. Elliot would have turned into the parlor, but Mrs. 
Stuart led the way up-stairs, saying, “ This way, Mr. El- 
liot ; I knew your nieces must want rest, and before I went 
to them I sent my servant home to see that a room was 
prepared for them. We had better take Miss Elliot there 
at once.” 

The motion of the carriage and the fresh air had com- 
pletely revived Grace. She had heard the few tender 
words addressed to her by her uncle as he bore her from 
the carriage to her bed, and those words, spoken in a voice 
that seemed to give her back half the joy of which death 
had robbed her, had repaid her for all the trials of the 
evening. Her gentle heart asked only love to make her 
happy, and as Mr. Elliot laid her on her bed and pressed 
his lips tenderly to her forehead, she whispered, “You will 
be my father now, dear uncle !” 

“Yes, my love, yours and Isabel’s,” and with a kind 
smile, Mr. Elliot turned to Isabel and held out his hand. 
She received it gently but calmly — coldly perhaps Mr. 
Elliot thought, as he contrasted her manner with the ten- 

3 * 


30 


TWO LIVES : OR. 


der glance that met his eye whenever he turned to Grace, 
and the fond clasp in which she held his other hand. 

“ I think you had better bid your daughters good night 
for the present, Mr. Elliot,” said Mrs. Stuart playfully, 
“ for they must be very weary. To-morrow morning, if 
you can breakfast for once so early as eight o’clock, come 
and take your chocolate with us. 

“ Good night, dear child,” said Mr. Elliot, as he bent 
over Grace. 

“ My child, say my child, uncle.” 

“ My child, my dear child,” and Mr. Elliot kissed her 
with real affection ; “ and good night, my Isabel — my other 
daughter.” 

Isabel offered her hand to her uncle with a pleased 
though quiet smile, but Mr. Elliot touched her cheek with 
his lips, and then passing quickly from the room, joined 
Captain Stuart in the parlor below. 

“ I hope your niece is better,” said that gentleman, with 
unusual animation of manner. 

“ Yes, she seems quite recovered ; she is a sweet, lovely 
child.” 

“ Very lovely.” 

“ And Isabel is handsome too ; though not so beautiful 
as Grace, or so engaging in her manners — but I am very 
weary; will you walk? You take a bed, I believe, at 
our house to-night.” 

Captain Stuart assented, and silence and darkness soon 
reigned throughout Mrs. Stuart’s well-ordered house. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


31 


CHAPTER III. 

'* She is all simplicity, 

A creature soft and mild ; 

Though on the eve of womanhood, 

In heart a very child.” 

Mrs. WeJby 

“ Sacred and sweet is all I see in her.” 

Shakspeare. 

The next morning, aroused by the unusual noises of the 
street, Isabel awoke at early dawn, while the wearied 
Grace continued long after in tranquil slumber. Their 
present position had awakened a new feeling in Isabel’s 
heart towards her cousin, a feeling allied to a mother’s 
watchful and guarding tenderness. She must be as the 
soft dew and the cheering sunbeam to this delicate plant 
removed from its native and congenial soil. Now, as she 
gazed on the soft, childish loveliness of Grace, life’s best 
influences were stirring within her, producing a new de- 
velopment of that beautiful, womanly nature which goes 
forth with deeper tenderness towards the helpless and de- 
pendent, which beams in the daughter’s eyes as she sup- 
ports the feeble steps of her aged parent, and swells in the 
mother’s heart as she bends above her sleeping infant. 
Such feelings are allied to prayer, and stealing softly from 
the side of Grace, Isabel knelt, and in fervent though 
voiceless supplication commended all her objects of interest 
to the guardian care of her Father in heaven. 

Mrs. Stuart found her young guests prepared to accom- 
nany her to the breakfasting room at eight o’clock, when 
jhe called for them. They had scarcely entered it when 


32 


rwo lives : or, 


Mr. Elliot and Captain Stuart arrived. Gace seemed 
even more lovely this morning to the gentlemen than they 
had last night pronounced her, yet she did not engross all 
their interest or admiration. Isabel’s intellectual face, with 
its pale, but clear complexion, its dark gray, thoughtful 
eyes and high forehead, from which the glossy, black hair, 
parted in the midst, was put smoothly back behind the 
small and well-formed ear, was felt to be singularly inter- 
esting, and when lit up by her smile of welcome they were 
ready to declare it beautiful. 

“ You are like your dear mother, Isabel,” said Mr. El- 
liot, and as if the likeness had been a new bond upon his 
love, he drew her again to his side and kissed her. No 
one who had marked the color that rushed to Isabel’s cheek, 
and the glad beam that flashed from her eyes at this, 
could have doubted her sensibility, though, with these in- 
voluntary demonstrations, her expression of feeling termi- 
nated, while Grace continued to clasp her uncle’s hand, 
seated herself beside him at table, and won his constant at- 
tention with the pleading, clinging tenderness of a petted 
child. 

The little party was still lingering over the table, when 
the door of the breakfasting room was thrown open, and 
a lady in the prime of her life and her beauty appeared at 
it. Her form had lost, it is true, somewhat of its youthful 
lightness, inclining slightly to embonpoint, but it was still 
beautiful in its rounded symmetry and graceful in every 
attitude and movement. Her complexion was of a deli- 
cate, creamy tint, her dark eyes were soft, yet arch, and her 
pale chesnut hair showed no trace of time’s advances. A 
white morning dress, coming close up to the beautiful 
throat, over which was thrown a shawl of India muslin, a 
cottage bonnet of straw, and the prettiest of French morn* 
ing caps, formed her simple, yet elegant costume. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


33 


“ Matilda !” and “ Mrs. Elliot !” were the exclamations 
which revealed to the young strangers the name of their 
visiter. They rose to receive her, and advancing at once 
to them, she put an arm around each, and kissing them, 
called them, “ Dear girls !” 

“But which is Isabel and which is Grace ?” she asked, 
after a moment’s smiling survey of them. 

They were pointed out to her, and again she kissed 
them, saying, “ Your uncle did not let me know he was 
coming this morning. He hoped to secure your whole 
hearts before I could see you, but you will give me a share 
in them, will you not ?” 

She had already obtained what she asked. It was im- 
possible to resist the graceful fascination of her manner. 
Already the party which had so shocked them last evening 
was forgotten, or, if remembered, only remembered to be 
excused. It was not till Mrs. Elliot had seated herself at 
table, that Isabel and Grace found she had been accompa- 
nied by a young gentleman, whom Mr. Elliot introduced 
1o them as their cousin Marion. 

“Were I not so delighted to see you, I should almost 
quarrel with you for coming quite so soon ; I had such 
pretty fancies about your rooms, and now you must go into 
them just as they are,” said Mrs. Elliot. 

“ Your fancies can now be executed undf r the supervis- 
ion of my cousins’ taste,” interposed Marion Elliot. 

“ And so divested of all their enchantment, by being 
seen wdien incomplete.” 

“ I can make a better arrangement than that,” said Mrs. 
Stuart ; “ leave the young ladies with me, till you are quite 
ready for their reception.” 

“ You do not dream what you are asking. I shall liv€ 
with them wherever they are,” exclaimed Mrs. Elliot. 

“ And I too,” said Mr. Elliot. 


34 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


“ And for me — I must live with my papa and mamma," 
cried Marion, with comic gravity. 

“ Agreed,” replied Mrs. Stuart, “ provided you promise 
not to require of me lodgings at night.” 

And so between jest and earnest it was concluded that 
Isabel and Grace should remain with Mrs. Stuart for a 
week, during which time Mrs. Elliot hoped to complete 
her plans for their comfort and enjoyment in their new 
home. 

They were very happy at Mrs. Stuart’s. There was 
something very winning and home-like in her watchful and 
almost maternal kindness, and Captain Stuart brought forth 
for their amusement, his books, his engravings, and the 
rich stores of his own mind — a mind which had gathered 
its treasures from the associations of active life, even more 
than from books. The cousins were enchanted by his 
vivid portraitures of the wild border life, in the midst of 
which he had passed so many years. It was rarely that 
he mentioned himself, but sometimes when a striking 
achievement caused Isabel to ask, “ Who did that ? Who 
led that detachment?” he would' laughingly confess him- 
self the hero of his own story, though more frequently she 
was left to suspect it from his evasive reply. To Marion 
Elliot’s pride in his friend they were indebted for sketches, 
which Captain Stuart was too reserved to have given of his 
own accord ; but the quick frown, and the “ Nay, nay, 
Marion, that will not interest your cousins,” with which 
his promptings were at first received, were laid aside as 
Captain Stuart saw the rapt attention with which they 
hung upon his words. Sometimes, during these narra- 
tions, his stern brow grew sterner, and his deep-set gray 
eye kindled and flashed, till Grace gazed on him with 
something akin to terror, yet terror in which there was a 
caarm. - 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


35 


A few days before the removal of Isabel and Grace to 
their uncle’s house, Mrs. Elliot came in the morning to 
talk over a party to which she had been the previous 
evening, or rather a French Marquis to whom the party 
had been given, and who had seemed to her, as well as to 
many others there, the only object worthy attention. 

“ I must invite him to our house,” she said. “ By-the- 
by, Isabel, I hope you and Grace speak French, for when 
Marion is gone again, I shall want you to interpret for 
me.” 

“ You would not find us very good interpreters, I fear ; 
we have not been accustomed to speak French, though we 
read and write it.” 

“ Read and write it ! that will be of no use to you, that 
I can see ; you must practise speaking. Walter,” she ex- 
claimed to Captain Stuart, who at that moment entered the 
room, “ Mr. Manesca says you speak French like a native ; 
pray spend an hour in French conversation with these 
young ladies every day while you are here. Will you ?” 

“ Certainly ; it will give me pleasure, if you and they 
desire it.” 

He looked at his intended pupils as if for some response, 
and Isabel said, “I fear, aunt, that would be troubling 
Captain Stuart too much — ” 

“ I said it would give me pleasure, Miss Douglass,” in- 
terrupted Captain Stuart, fixing his eyes smilingly upon 
her. 

“ And Walter never pays a compliment, but says exact- 
ly what he means, and neither more nor less ; so I shall 
depend on him for your improvement, instead of giving you 
a master, who will bind you down to certain hours, when 
I want you to be free as air.” 

Mrs. Elliot rose soon after to return home, and Waite 
Stuart accompanied her. 


36 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


“ What say you to these French conversations, Grace V' 
asked Isabel. 

“ That they will be awkward at first, but Captain Stuart 
is very good ; at any rate, I shall try them, and so I should 
if they were twice as disagreeable, for I do love Aunt 
Elliot, and I never can refuse to do any thing that one I 
love wishes.” 

Mrs. Stuart had been but a short time in the room, and 
had heard only the latter part of this sentence. Her kind 
heart was already deeply interested for these orphan girls, 
and she said, looking affectionately at Grace, “ Pardon me, 
my dear child, if I am taking too great a liberty with you ; 
but I must tell you, that that seems to me a very danger- 
ous sentiment.” 

“ What, Mrs. Stuart ?” 

“ That you cannot refuse to do any thing desired by onq, 
you love.” 

“ But I only love good people, you see, Mrs. Stuart ; I 
never mean to love the bad, and as the good can only want 
me to do good, I shall escape all the danger ; shall I not ?” 
asked Grace, playfully, as she seated herself on a foot- 
stool at Mrs. Stuart’s feet, and looked up to her con- 
fidingly. 

“ You forget, my dear child, that there are none good — 
no, not one. The best are liable to err, and far indeed is 
he likely to stray from the right, who makes the fallible 
judgment of man his guide, instead of the perfect law of 
God.” 

Grace cast down her eyes, and Mrs. Stuart, laying her 
hand gently on her head, added, “You think me very 
grave, I doubt not, but I cannot help being so, for I have 
known women make such Shipwreck of happiness, of repu. 
tation, and even of conscience on this principle, that I re 
gard it as one of the most dangerous shoals to be encoun 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


37 


tered in our voyage through life, — especially to a nature, 
gentle and- loving, like yours.” 

Grace continued silent, and Mrs. Stuart said, “ You are 
not displeased, I hope, with an old woman’s freedom ?” 

“ Displeased ! oh, no !” 

“Then I will ask you, my dear ci.ild, henceforward, in 
every doubtful case of conduct, to inquire, not what this or 
that person thinks or wishes, but what God commands — 
what the still, small voice of conscience counsels.” 

“ But it will not be wrong to speak French with Captain 
Stuart, as Aunt Elliot wishes us to do ; will it ?” 

“Certainly not; it was not to the thing you intended 
doing, for of that I had not heard, but to the principle you 
expressed that I objected.” 

The next day the French conversations commenced, and 
thus Captain Stuart was brought into yet more intimate re- 
lations with Isabel and Grace. It will be thought, perhaps, 
that such an association could not greatly excite his inter- 
est, but, in truth, he found an -almost irresistible attraction 
in the childlike Grace. He had lived for years among 
men — strong, brave, fierce men — separated from the refi- 
ning and softening influence of woman, until the desire for 
that influence had become the passion of his soul, and the 
very exaggeration of the distinctive characteristics of her 
sex in Grace — the sensitiveness, the dependence, even the 
exactingness of her nature, made her more charming in 
his eyes. It was, of course, but the attraction of a love- 
ly child, for, at not quite sixteen, Grace must have seemed 
such to the man of twenty-five, yet the deep, decided tone 
of -one accustomed to command, grew gentle when ad- 
dressed to her, and if he saw her agitated or disturbed, he 
could scarce resist the desire to draw her to his bosom and 
win her confidence, and sooth her sorrow, as he would 
nave done that of a favorite sister. 

4 


38 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


The French conversations proved as advantageous as 
Mrs. Elliot could have expected to her nieces, and when 
.he Marquis de Villeneuve presented himself at her house, 
■die was at no loss for interpreters. 

“ You have lost a capital scene by not coming sooner,” 
said Marion Elliot one day to Walter Stuart, as he entered 
the parlor in which he was seated with his mother and 
cousins. 

“What was it?” asked Walter Stuart carelessly, an- 
ticipating some amusing blunder on the part of the Marquis 
de Villeneuve, whom he had passed in the hall. 

“ Why, De Villeneuve has taken it into his wise head 
to admire our little Grace prodigiously — ” 

“ Cousin Marion !” cried the blushing Grace. 

“ And my mother here,” laying his hand affectionately 
on hers, “who is, as you know, the most inveterate of 
match-makers — ” 

“ Marion !” remonstrated Mrs. Elliot. 

“And who longs to place herself above all her com- 
peers by bringing a French Marquis to the feet of her 
protegee, would let nobody interpret for her this morning 
but Grace, intending thereby to show off her accomplish- 
ments, while poor Grace blushed, stammered, and blun- 
. dered, doing little credit to your teaching — but never mind, 
Grace, you will soon learn better from De Villeneuve.” 

Marion’s scene did not seem so capital as he had im- 
agined it would in the eyes of Captain Stuart. There was 
something almost sad in the look with which he regarded 
Grace. She met it, and was embarrassed by its intensity 
of expression. 

A few days after, Captain Stuart sent a handsomely 
bound copy of « Manesca’s French Course,” to each of his 
“ pupils,” as he was accustomed playfully to call Isabel 
and Grace. The next time he called at. Mr. Elliot’s he 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


39 


found Grace in the parlor alone. She was writing when 
he entered, but dropped her pen on perceiving who the 
visiter was, and thanked him for his present. 

“ I hoped it would remind you not unpleasantly of your 
quondam teacher when he should be gone, as he soon must 
be,” said Captain Stuart. 

“ And are you then going very soon ?” asKea Grace. 

" In little more than a week.” 

“ For how long ?” 

“ I know not exactly, but so long probably that you will 
have quite time enough to forget me before I return.” 

“ I never forget my friends,” said Grace, earnestly yet 
modestly. 

“ And will you permit me to consider myself as your 
friend, to speak to you as a friend, as I would do to my 
own little sister.” 

“ Certainly,” replied Grace, gratified, yet abashed by his 
earnestness, as he leaned forward on the table between 
them, and fixed his calm, grave eyes upon her face. 

After a moment’s thoughtful pause, he said, “ Your 
friends here love you very dearly. They seem unwilling 
to abridge your present pleasures even for yohr own future 
good ; but this is such valuable time to you that I have 
felt an almost irresistible desire to urge you to make use 
of it in preparing yourself more fully for the life on which 
you are soon to enter. Once launched on the current of 
the society to which Mrs. Elliot will introduce you, and 
you will have no time for such sober employments as 
reading or study ; now you can have the best masters, 
if you desire it ; many young ladies at your age are *at 
school — ” 

“ Isabel and I were taught altogether at home ; we never 
went to school,” interrupted Grace, deprecatingly. 

“ And you would not like to begin now,” said Captain 


40 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


Stuart with a smile ; “ well, there is no necessity that you 
should, for your reading together may be made as im- 
proving to you as any school, if you read with any system ; 
you should have a course marked out for you by some 
friend.” 

“ Will you do it ?” asked Grace. 

“ Will you permit me to do it, and will you promise me 
to read regularly, say two hours every day, with your 
cousin, and not let Marion’s thoughtless jests, or even the 
Marquis de Villeneuve’s flatteries tempt you from your 
preparation for the graver duties of life.” 

In his earnestness he laid his hand almost unconsciously 
on that of Grace, which rested on the paper before her, 
and at this moment Mrs. Elliot and Isabel entered the par- 
lor. There was something very significant in Mrs. Elliot’s 
smile, as her eyes fell on the hands thus clasped. The 
color may have deepened in Captain Stuart’s face, but it 
was with no emotion of shame, and if Mrs. Elliot had 
suspected him of any feeling which he would have hesi- 
tated to avow, she was undeceived when, holding out his 
other hand to Isabel, he exclaimed, “ You have just come 
at the right moment, Miss Douglass. I have been remind- 
ing your cousin, that two years, at least, must pass before 
she will be called on for the onerous labors of a belle, and 
advising her to spend some part of that time in preparing 
for graver duties, and she promises me, or, .o speak more 
properly, was about to promise me to purs e a course of 
reading which I shall mark out for her, dev iting to it not 
less than two hours every day — ” 

“ Stay, stay, most unreasonable of men !” cried Mrs. 
Elliot. “ Two hours for reading, and then music — ” 

“ And Italian, and Spanish, and German,” cried Isabel, 
while both she and Grace laughed at their aunt’s look of 
dismay. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


41 


“ Yes, Italian, and Spanish, and German,” said Capf. 
Stuart, smiling gayly ; “ and lectures in the evening 
whenever you can command a good course on chemistry, 
geology, or any of the natural sciences.” 

“ And pray, what time are they to have for visiting, or 
amusement V 9 questioned Mrs. Elliot. 

“ Oh ! this course will only extend over two years, and 
then I give them up to your tender mercies.” 

“ Poor things f They will be entirely spoiled for the 
world as it is, before that time.” 

“ Then we may hope that they will aid in making the 
world as it should be.” 

“ What ! reformers as well as blues ! Come here, 
Marion,” she called to her son, who at that instant passed 
the door of the parlor, “ come here, and help me to save 
these poor girls from being made something between 
femmes savans and field-preachers.” 

“ It is too late, aunt ; we promise — we promise,” cried 
both Isabel and Grace. 

“ Victory ! Victory !” shouted Captain Stuart. 

“ Boast not too soon, brave sir ; promise is not per- 
formance.” 

“ With the true — and I am sure these young ladies 
belong to that class — they cannot be separated.” 

“We shall see,” said Mrs. Elliot. 

In less than a fortnight after this scene, Captain Stuart 
and Lieut. Elliot were again on their way to join the 
army, but, before they went, the former had marked out a 
course of reading for the cousins, had procured the books 
for them which they needed, and with Mr. Elliot’s consent, 
had engaged an excellent Italian master to attend them. 

4 * 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


4 % l 


CHAPTER IV. 

* 

Love Virtue : she alone is free, 

She can teach ye how to climb 
Higher than the sphery chime ; 

Or if Virtue feeble were, 

Heaven itself would stoop to he* 

Jomus. 

Time glided rapidly away, rapidly to Mrs. Elliot, who 
had found new reason for her favorite indulgences, in the 
necessity of keeping up her circle of acquaintance for the 
sake of Isabel and Grace ; and not less rapidly to Isabel 
and Grace themselves. The course of study recom- 
mended by Captain Stuart was pursued with equal avidity 
by both the cousins, while messages occasionally trans- 
mitted through his mother to his “ pupils,” as he still 
styled them, or through Mrs. Elliot in her correspondence 
with Marion to him, kept alive in the minds of both their 
past associations. 

As the characters of Isabel and Grace developed them- 
selves, a nice observer would have marked, in many things, 
the effect of the different influences under which their 
first impressions had been received. Grace continued to 
act in accordance with the principle whose dangerous 
tendency Mrs.- Stuart had endeavored to unveil to her. 
She was, in consequence, what the objects of her affection 
—we had -almost said, what the associate of the hour — 
made her. Amiable and lovely, she sought only to please, 
md she rarely failed to attain her object. Her studies 
vere pursued, that Captain Stuart might, on his return, 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


13 


know how well she had kept her promise to him ; — Captain 
Stuart, who was so kind, and whose talent, decision, and 
high moral qualities, as reported by Marion, commanded 
such admiration from her, that he had become the repre- 
sentative of her ideal, the model with whom to compare, 
and by whom to judge of others. Listening with gentle 
acquiescence to Mrs. Stuart’s rational reflections, full of 
all sweet, domestic affections when nestling at her uncle’s 
side, she was with Mrs. Elliot the gayest flutterer in her 
morning drive or evening assembly. Grace had not for- 
gotten the teachings of her childhood. There was no 
family altar erected in Mr. Elliot’s house, but the cousins 
failed not, morning and evening, to bow themselves before 
the God of their fathers ; and often when Grace heard, at 
church, some tune linked with the memory of early days, 
or some hymn whose words she had last caught from the 
lips of her buried father or her absent aunt, the sudden 
rush of almost forgotten feelings, the sudden awakening of 
long dormant sympathies would cause her heart to throb, 
and her eyes to fill, with emotions which seemed perhaps 
to herself as well as to many spectators, to have their 
source in a religious sentiment ; but there was no religious 
principle actuating her life. While all smiled on her, and 
caressed her, her heaven was attained, and full of the 
present, in a refined yet luxurious self-indulgence, she 
sported joyously along her sunny path without a thought of 
whither it led. 

To Isabel, life was a tiling of graver and deeper import. 
Accustomed in childhood to yield her gratification to that 
of her more delicate cousin, she had been early taught 
that self-indulgence was not her ultimate good. Even the 
praise for such early mastery, which might have seemed to 
some its legitimate reward, was sparingly bestowed ; but a 
more valuable possession was given her in the just princi- 


44 


TWO LIVES ; OR, 


pies implanted in her mind, and in the constant reference 
which she was taught to make to the approval of the Holy, 
and to those spiritual rewards which accompany that ap- 
proval. Even now, Isabel was in no danger of making her 
own present pleasure the object of her life ; for though no 
distinction was made in her uncle’s house between Grace 
and herself, she remembered her vow, and in obedience to 
it many a coveted pleasure was silently foregone, many a 
iherishjed plan relinquished for what she discovered to be 
the desire of Grace, till what had originated in the enthusi- 
asm of grateful affection became her undeviating habit, and 
extended its influence to her daily and hourly manifesta- 
tions of character. Never contending with Grace for the 
admiration she valued or the caresses she loved, Isabel’s 
manners became quiet, undemonstrative, some said cold. 

Mrs. Elliot was often impatient with the studies which 
kept her nieces from her side, when their attractions would 
have added brilliancy to her own. 

* Books — books, forever !” she exclaimed one day, as 
she peeped into a package that lay upon the table. “ I won- 
der, Isabel, what you and Grace are studying for — law, 
medicine, or divinity. I can assure you, I do not think 
you will recommend yourself to lawyers, physicians, or 
divines, by rivalling them in their own sphere.” 

“ These are German books,” said Isabel with a smile. 

“ And what do you want with German ?” 

“ To interpret for you,” said Grace gayly, and laying 
her head caressingly on her aunt’s shoulder, as she spoke — 
“ to interpret for you, when a German baron comes to sde 
you, that he may not be driven away, as the poor Marquis 
de Villeneuve was, by my blunders.” 

“ Saucy girl !” Mrs. Elliot called her, but she kissed 
ner too. 

Mrs. Stuart was present at this scene, and one day when 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


45 


Isabel was pleading her studies as a reason why she could 
not see her oftener, she said, “ That was a very important 
question, which your aunt asked the other day, 4 For what 
are you studying V Have you ever asked it of your- 
self?” 

“ I have,” said Isabel gravely. 

i; And what was your answer ?” 

“ I could not obtain a very satisfactory one. I can 
hardly say it is to please my friends, for I do not know any 
of them who will be particularly pleased by my acquire- 
ments.” 

“ Perhaps you are ambitious of the honors of a blue.” 

Isabel laughed as she said, “ I have not been accus- 
tomed to hear that title treated with much honor at my 
uncle’s.” 

“ But we must have some motive for any long-continued 
course of action ; does yours for this lie too deep for dis- 
covery ?” 

“ I do not believe I have any motive, except the present 
pleasure I derive from my studies.” 

“ And is that a sufficient motive for a rational being ? 
An animar seeks the gratification of its instincts for the 
sake of present pleasure — surely reasoning man should 
have higher aims.” 

Isabel colored and looked down in silence. 

“ I do not offend you, I hope,” said Mrs. Stuart in her 
peculiarly gentle, yet grave tones. 

“ Offend me ! Oh no ! I am silent from shame ; for, 
I must speak the truth, I have never thought of this sub- 
ject as I should. Pray, tell me, what should be my mo- 
tive ?” 

“ What is our most reasonable aim in all our actions ?” 

Isabel, after some thought, answered, “ Our own happi- 
ness and the happiness of those around us.” 


46 


TWO LIVES : OR) 


“ Nay, nay ; is that so ? Are we to set before us an 
aim so vague, so illusory ? Believe me, my dear child, 
happiness is a wandering light, varying in form and in 
direction with our varying moods, and the shifting scenes 
of life, leading its pursuer hither and thither, till he sinks 
wearied and disappointed into the grave.” 

“ And what then should we seek ?” 

“ God.” 

Isabel almost started at hearing that solemn word in such 
a connection. 

“ I know,” she said, after a moment’s awed silence, 
“ that He is the source of all good, and that we must seek 
His blessing before all things.” 

“ That is true, for in that blessing we have all things ; 
but you have been accustomed, probably, to consider all 
that relates to Him as something apart from our common 
life. God and the world have seemed to you necessarily 
opposed ; and while you have b 4 een taught to reverence 
and love Him, and to look to Him for your reward in a 
future life, you have felt as if there were other objects to 
which your present existence must be at least in part de- 
voted, other aims which must now divide your soul with 
Him. Is it not so ?” 

“ I believe you are right ; nor can I see how it is possi- 
ble to connect Him with our common life, our daily ac- 
tions : there seems irreverence in the thought.” 

“ And yet all action must be informed by a living spirit 
of good or evil, which as a quickening germ will produce 
its like in our own souls and the souls of others ; what else 
do we mean by the influence of our actions ? The minutest 
and most common acts thus viewed become of importance, 
as advancing or impeding our approach to God — that is, to 
absolute goodness and holiness. By seeking God, I mean 
that we should seek to have His Spirit — the Spirit of all 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


41 


goodr ess — dwelling in our hearts and inspiring our actions, 
— making us perfect as He is perfect — holy, just, and true 
as He is.” 

“ But can we be thus perfect ?” 

“ He Himself through the lips of His Divine Son has 
bidden us to aim at perfection, and it was of our aims I 
spoke. Do you not see, now, how it is possible, even in 
the most common acts of our lives, to seek God ?” 

“ I understand your argument, and yet I should like to 
hear you apply it to our common life ; to my studies, for 
instance ; how can I seek God in them ?” 

“ By recognising in your intellectual nature a gift of 
God, to be cultivated for Him, for the advancement of His 
rule — the rule of the true and the right — over your own 
soul and through the world.” 

“ This I can see, but in our social life ; it seems to me 
almost a profanity to speak of God as present there.” 

“ If your impression be correct, then is our social life all 
evil, for where God is not, there is no good ; but I think 
you will agree with me, after a little reflection, that there 
is no scene in which you enter, where you may not find 
means of cultivating in yourself, and exhibiting to others, 
humility, patience, charity, and all other pure, lovely, and 
generous qualities. Wherever this cannot be, it is wrong 
for you to be, for there you have necessarily withdrawn 
yourself from God, and the purest place, or the noblest 
pursuit which awakens in your spirit the opposite emo- 
tions, which becomes the occasion to you of vain-glory, or 
envy, or of any ungenerous and unlovely quality, is, to 
you, evil.” 

There was a long and thoughtful pause. 

At length Mrs. Stuart asked, “ Have I aided you in 
answering the question, Fcir what are you studying ?” 

“ You have at least taught me for what I ought to study,” 


48 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


said Isabel, with an ingenuous blush ; “ for what I ought 
to live,” she added, a moment after. 

Nor did Isabel forget the lesson thus received, or refer 
to it only on rare and distant occasions. The principle it 
conveyed was adopted as the abiding principle of her life. 
Tried by its rigid requisitions, she found much that she had 
thitherto regarded as harmless at least, if not wholly right, 
on which she was obliged to pronounce the sentence evil ; 
but there was a Divine Redeemer, and she sorrowed not as 
one without hope ; and though, thereafter, the quick im- 
pulses of youth, or the counteracting influences surround- 
ing her, sometimes led her from the course to which it 
pointed, she quickly turned to it again as to her guiding 
star, and felt safe only when its beams were on her path. 
And how transparent, and free, and joyous was her life 
while she walked in its light ! It was light from heaven, 
and the cares and annoyances that shadow the brightest 
scenes of earth were dispelled by it ; peace had its home 
within her heart, and serenity sat throned upon her brow. 

Isabel loved Grace so truly, and confided in her so en- 
tirely, that her first desire was to communicate to her the 
peace and light that had dawned upon her own spirit. And 
Grace acquiesced in the truth presented to her, but it open- 
ed no avenue to heaven in her soul. She was a believer 
emphatically in another life, a life dissevered wholly from 
the present, a life for which our Sabbaths and our Bibles 
were given to prepare us, and to which belonged such 
thoughts as Isabel presented to her now ; but to believe 
that we could here bring heaven into our souls, that we 
could adopt its principles, live its life, and find its enjoy- 
ments, was to her an unintelligible mystery. For this, her 
earthly life, there were earthly stimulants and earthly re- 
wards, human love and human applause. 

Different as were the sources of action in the two minds 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


49 


thus unfolded to our readers, in the visible results there 
was often little perceptible variation. But there was har- 
mony between Isabel’s inner and outer being, and her life 
rose as a joyous anthem towards heaven, while that of 
Grace was as a medley, in which notes full of sweetness 
and grandeur were suddenly succeeded by light, comic 
absurdities, or harsh discords. She almost always felt 
with Isabel, yet often acted in accordance with her aunt’s 
worldly maxims, or with the light caprice of some compan- 
ion of the hour. 

It was not yet thought necessary to make any difference 
in the expenditure of Isabel, with her fifteen or at most 
twenty thousand dollars of property, secured to her by the 
careful management during his life, and the generous be- 
quest at his death of the late Mr. Elliot, and of Grace with 
her large estates, worth at least five times as much. They 
were each allowed a private purse of twelve dollars a 
month, to expend as their feelings or their fancies might 
lictate, while equally liberal arrangements were made for 
the claims created by their social position or their intellec- 
tual improvement. 

“ Oh, Grace ! come and see poor Mrs. Brown,” cried 
Isabel, one morning, rushing into the parlor in which Grace 
sat at the piano, practising her last lesson in music ; “ poor 
woman ! she is in sad distress, almost all she owned was 
burned up in the fire last night.” * 

The sympathies of Grace were quick and warm, and 
without a moment’s delay, she followed Isabel to the room 
in which Mrs. Brown, their washerwoman, stood taking 
clean clothes from a basket, and laying them on the bed. 

“ Ah, ladies !” she exclaimed as they entered, “ it was 
well for you that I had your clothes in the baskets, all 
ready to bring to you, or I never could have saved them ; 
but the first thing I did, when I saw \ow near the fire was, 

5 


50 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


was to run over to Miss Green’s with my baskets, and by 
the time I got back, every thing was in a blaze. I thank 
the Lord the children are all safe, and yet it’s little I know 
how I am to feed or to clothe them. We did not save a 
second rag to our backs, and here am I — a poor lone wo- 
man, to begin the world again, and not even a shelter to 
cover us.” 

Mrs. Brown’s voice was stifled by sobs, and Isabel and 
Grace stood by in powerless sorrow, not knowing what to 
do or say for her comfort. At length Isabel asked, 
“ Where are you staying now, Mrs. Brown ?” 

“ With a friend, ma’am, in Essex-street, that kindly let 
me and my children come in her room, till we could get 
another place ; but I must find our victuals, and I was go- 
ing to ask you, ladies, if you would be kind enough to pay 
me for this month’s washing now.” 

“ Certainly, certainly, Mrs. Brown,” exclaimed both 
Grace and Isabel. 

“ I know it’s two weeks before it’s due, but it would be 
a great help.” 

“ Oh ! no matter when it is due, you shall have it now,” 
and Grace hastened to her aunt, and having told Mrs. 
Brown’s piteous story, returned with the money to her, and 
with many thanks the poor woman took her leave, com- 
forted and strengthened even more by the sympathy she 
had excited than by this seasonable payment. 

New to the trials of life, Isabel and Grace could not dis- 
miss Mrs. Brown and her sad condition from their minds, 
at least without attempting to do something more for her 
relief than merely paying for her labors in advance. 

“ She said her poor children had no clothes,” suggested 
Grace, “ suppose we buy some flannel to make petticoats 
for them, the weather is getting quite cold, and some calico 
for frocks.” 


TO £EEM AND TO BE. 


51 


Isabel readily agreed to this proposal, and they examined 
their purses to ascertain how far their contents would go to. 
wards the gratification of their generous desires. Togeth- 
er, they had a little over fourteen dollars. 

“ Now, how shall we get the things ? Who will buy 
them for us ?” asked Isabel. 

These were questions not easily answered. They had 
never walked out in New York alone, and they felt almost 
intuitively that Mrs. Elliot was not the best agent to be 
employed in the purchase of coarse flannel ana calico for 
poor children. Before they had decided what should be 
done, they heard Mrs. Elliot’s voice calling for them. 
They had promised to accompany her in her morning 
drive, and the carriage was ready. 

The picture of Mrs. Brown and her scantily clothed 
children faded into indistinctness, as, seated in one of the 
most splendid carriages in the city, Isabel and Grace rolled 
leisurely through Broadway, looking out upon the gayly 
dressed and busy multitude that thronged its sidewalks, 
and upon its shop- windows draperied with the most costly 
and elegant articles of merchandise. The carriage drew 
up at a milliner’s, and they entered her room, already 
crowded with the fair votaries of fashion, among whom 
lounged a few idle gentlemen. 

“ See here, young ladies !” said a young attendant to 
Grace and Isabel, “ here are some beautiful second mourn- 
ing cravats and ribands for the waist. Nothing in mourn- 
ing was ever so elegant, just see how splendidly the cravats 
are embroidered, and the ribands match them exactly.” 

“ Oh, they are beautiful !” cried one of their young ac- 
quaintances, who paused near, to examine the cravats, “ if 
I were in mourning, I would have one directly.” 

“ Put up a cravat and riband for me,” said Grace. 

«* Ah ! you are a fortuna e girl,” said the young lady 


52 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


who had just spoken, “ you can get whatever you want ; 
now, I am dying for that blue and salmon cravat, and I 
cannot get it.” 

“ I always like to deal with Miss Elliot, she never even 
asks the price of any thing,” said the milliner’s apprentice, 
already versed in the arts of flattery : “ shall I put up a cra- 
vat and riband for you ? I dare say I can find one exactly 
like this,” she added, turning to Isabel with an insinuating 
air, which changed to an expression almost contemptuous, 
as she declined her offer. 

“ What do I owe you V 3 asked Grace, as she received 
the little package. 

“ Only two dollars.” 

Grace handed the money. 

“ Only two dollars !” cried the young lady who was 
dying for the blue and salmon cravat, “ and I cannot coax 
mamma out of seven shillings for that cravat.” 

Grace lingered behind her, laid down the seven shillings, 
received the coveted prize and followed her with it, amidst 
exclamations of “ How generous ! I like to deal with such 
generous people,” from the obsequious attendant. 

Isabel was ashamed to feel the color rising in her cheek, 
as she caught a look which showed that this girl was con- 
trasting the cousins in her mind. The color deepened, as 
she heard the voice of the young lady to whom Grace had 
presented the cravat, exclaiming, “ Oh, Grace ! this is too 
kind ; just see, mamma, what a beautiful cravat Miss 
Elliot has given me, she is so generous !” 

“ Come here, Isabel,” cried Mrs. Elliot, before she had 
time to recover her self-possession. “ Here is a subscrip- » 
tion paper for those poor people that were burnt out in— 
where did you say ; Miss ?” 

“ Havana.” 

“ Oh, yes ! Havana ; how much shall I put down for 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


53 


you ? do not say more than you have in your purse, for 
you must pay at once, how much have you ?” 

“ I — I am very sorry — ” 

“ But how much are you sorry ? as the Frenchman ask- 
ed,” persisted Mrs. Elliot gayly, rather pleased at the 
attention which the little dialogue had attracted from the 
ladies around, as she felt sure that her nieces would do her 
credit by their liberality. 

“ I want a brown riband,” sounded near Isabel, and her 
failing resolution was nerved again, for Mrs. Brown with 
all her train of miseries was before her. 

“ I have nothing to give, aunt.” 

“ Nothing to give ! Why your purse does not seem by 
any means empty.” 

“ But I must give this money for — for — ” 

“ If it be for any thing you have purchased here, Miss 
shall charge it to me.” 

“ No, no ; it is for nothing I have bought, I only want — ” 

“ Pray do not stammer and look so dreadfully confused. 
I will not force you to give any thing,” said Mrs. Elliot 
coldly. 

Isabel turned away with tears in her eyes, ashamed to 
meet the looks which she fancied bent on her, and anxious 
only to hide herself and her purse from every one. 

“ Here, Grace !” cried Mrs. Elliot, “ have you any 
thing for these poor sufferers in Havana ? Will you 
subscribe ?” 

“ You do it for me, aunt.” 

(i But how much shall I say ? It must be no more than 
you have in your purse, for the money will be called for 
this afternoon.” 

“ There’s my purse, I do not know exactly how much 
there is in it.” 

Mrs. Elliot turned out the contents ; there were five 
5 * 


54 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


dollars and a half. “ There/’ said she, putting back tha 
half, “ I will not leave you penniless.” 

“ Take it, aunt ; I do not want it, I would rather give it 
to those poor people.” 

“ Mrs. Brown,” whispered Isabel. 

“ I can’t help her now, for you see all my money is 
gone, and these poor people, I suppose, want it just as 
much ; besides, it would have looked so mean to refuse.” 

Grace did not know that Isabel had refused. 

Poor Isabel ! she longed to shelter herself from observa- 
tion in the carriage, and felt that it was indeed a difficult 
thing to prefer reality to appearance ; being to seeming 
generous. She would gladly, as soon as they were in the 
carriage, have explained to Mrs. Elliot the cause of her 
apparent selfishness, but that lady’s coldness of manner 
rendered it for some time quite impossible for her to ad- 
dress her freely. At length, Mrs. Elliot, who was not in 
the least of a sullen nature, said, “ You really vexed me, 
Isabel, by appearing so miserly before all those people, 
refusing to give any thing, with a purse full of money in 
your hand.” 

“ I had only six dollars, aunt.” 

“ Only six dollars ! Why Grace had only five and a 
half. Six dollars would have been a very handsome sub- 
scription from a young girl, even half of it would have 
done ; but to give nothing ! I never was so ashamed of 
any thing in my life.” 

“ I had promised, Grace and I had promised — I mean 
we had determined to spend all our money* this month for 
poor Mrs. Brown.” 

“ For Mrs. Brown !” 

“ Yes, you know she has lost every thing, even her 
stahes and her children’s, by the fire.” 

w And you are going to spend your money for hei. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


55 


Foolish child ! if I had known that, I would have made 
you give it where you would have got some credit for it. 
There will be people enough to help Mrs. Brown, and I 
dare say, she will soon be better ofF than ever.” 

“ But, if we all send our money to Havana, who can 
help her ?” asked Isabel, with a smile. She was happy 
that her aunt knew her motive, and thought her “ foolish’’ 
rather than selfish. With the assistance and by the 
advice of Mrs. Stuart, her purchases were made for Mrs. 
Brown ; and when she received the tearful thanks of the 
grateful mother, she was rewarded for her morning at the 
milliner’s. 


CHAPTER V. 

“ A man, whom storms can never make 
Meanly complain, nor can a flattering gale 
Make him talk proudly.” 

Dr. Watts. 

While Isabel and Grace were in mourning, Mrs. Elliot 
did not urge their making their appearance with her at 
large parties or in public places, but the second year of 
their residence with her, when Isabel was nearly eighteen 
and Grace seventeen, she insisted, almost commanded, 
that they should lay aside the “ habiliments of wo,” and 
accompany her to all her gay resorts. They attracted 
attention and excited admiration wherever they appeared. 
From the boxes of the theatre, the promenade in Broad- 
way, and even sometimes in that place consecrated to the 
worship of the Holiest, glasses were directed to the faces 
of \he “ Southern Heiresses,” c or such report had an- 


56 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


nounced them to be. There was something piquant in the 
very contrast of the tall, graceful Isabel, with her dark, 
earnest eyes and intellectual brow, and the light, not less 
graceful and more sparkling Grace, to whom her golden 
hair, falling in curls over her neck and shoulders — it was 
a style which Mrs. Elliot thought becoming to her — clear, 
laughing blue eyes, and a manner unrestrained in its gayety 
or its caressing tenderness, gave somewhat of childhood’s 
unconscious charm. 

Even the sober mind of Isabel was at first not wholly 
proof against these flatteries, although, in moments of 
retirement, she heard “ a still, small voice,” rebuking the 
rising sensations of gratified vanity as unworthy of her 
nobler nature. But a few weeks’ experience of the un- 
varying round of labored pleasure, in which she was led 
by her aunt, was sufficient to satiate her, for she found 
there nothing to elevate, nothing to meet the requisitions 
of a mind and heart that had learned to look heavenward 
for its hopes and its rewards. Yet Isabel’s nature was in 
no degree cold or unsocial, and even when she began to 
turn a wishful eye from the brilliant saloons in which her 
evening and much of her night was often passed, to a quiet 
corner of her uncle’s study or a seat at Mrs. Stuart’s fire- 
side, one glance at Grace, her face radiant with pleasure, 
her movements joyous and airy as those of some spirit of 
mirth, was sufficient to recall her truant thoughts and 
awaken her to some enjoyment of the passing scene. In 
the constant engagements of this life of gayety, there was 
little time for the more quiet intercourse of friendship. 
Mrs. Stuart missed the pleasant, social visits of the young 
girls, who had become objects of tender interest to her, 
and one of whom — Isabel — her heart had adopted in the 
place of the daughter whom death had early snatched 
from her arms. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


5 ? 


The spring was far advanced towards summer, and the 
warmth of the weather had already caused some interrup- 
tion to the winter’s gayeties, when Mrs. Stuart called one 
morning to invite the cousins and Mr. and Mrs. Elliot to 
spend the evening with her. Mrs. Elliot and her niecet) 
were engaged. 

“ Can you not make an excuse for me, and let me go t< 
Mrs. Stuart ?” asked Isabel diffidently. 

“ How can that be ? You know — ” commenced Mrs. 
Elliot, but Grace had already exclaimed, “ You will not 
leave me, mia Bella , you know I cannot sing without you, 
and this is to be a musical soirte at Mrs. Fenton’s,” and 
Isabel smiled in the sweet face uplifted to hers, "and almost 
without a sigh, yielded her own wishes. 

“ But can we not make a compromise ?” asked Mrs. 
Stuart. “Your evening, I suspect, does not begin till 
mine has nearly ended. At what hour do you go to your 
engagement ?” 

“ At nine.” 

“ Then, Isabel, if you can come to me at six, and remain 
till your aunt calls for you, it will give me great pleasure ; 
as for you, Grace, you have no taste for the society of a 
plain old woman.” 

“ Oh ! do not say so, dear Mrs. Stuart. You know I 
love you, and love to be with you,” and Grace threw her 
arms around Mrs. Stuart’s neck and nestled closely to her 
side, “ but I love so many, and it is impossible to be with 
them all, you know ; I will come and spend a long day 
with you soon.” 

“ I must not hope for you this evening, I see ; but, 
Isabel—” 

“ I will come certainly ; by six o’clock, you say ?” 

“ Yes ; and ask your uncle to come with you ; I am to 
have a friend of Walter, from Virginia, with me, whom 


68 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


should be glad to introduce to him ; lest he too should be 
engaged, however, I will send Arthur for you, so pray be 
ready at six.” 

“ I will.” 

Mr. Elliot could not go' to Mrs. Stuart’s at six, but he 
promised to call at a later hour ; and Isabel, dressed for 
the musical soirte, at which her evening was to be con- 
cluded, accompanied Arthur Stuart, who was punctual to 
the appointed hour. 

Isabel’s style of dress was always simple, and now the 
muslin dress and the single snowy flower with leaves of 
vivid green which lay upon the glossy braids of her dark 
hair, seemed scarcely unsuited to a quiet evening at Mrs. 
Stuart’s, though sufficiently elegant for a more fashionable 
assemblage. The gentleman mentioned by Mrs. Stuart 
was already with her when Isabel entered, and she in- 
troduced him as Mr. Falconer, of Virginia. 

Mr. Falconer was visiting a more northern climate than 
that of his own home with the hope of regaining his usual 
vigorous health, which had lately been impaired “ by a 
severe cold,” he said ; but, as Captain Stuart had written 
his mother, by spending a night in water to the waist 
while he was making the most exhausting exertions to 
save the lives and property of some poor people from de- 
struction by a sudden rise in a river during a gale of 
wind. His residence in Virginia was but a few miles 
distant from the military post at which Captain Stuart had 
been stationed for the last two years. They had been 
thus brought into each other’s society, and similarity of 
sentiment and character had created a warm friendship 
between them. 

There was in this gentleman’s high and broad fore- 
head, and clear, commanding eye, the indisputable stamp 
of power. His closely curling brown hair grew up in 


TO- SEEM AND TO BE. 


59 


points at the temples, leaving that part of the forehead 
with its full, spiral veins, quite exposed to view. He 
would scarcely have been called handsome, yet if beauty 
consist in the expression of a noble spirit, never face 
possessed it more than his. He was tall ; and there 
was that in his form and movements which would have 
proclaimed him gentleman, though he had been clad in 
the coarsest garb. His conversation was marked by a 
cordial spirit, a ready animated sympathy with the feel- 
ings of his associates. Nothing seemed too trivial tc 
interest him which gave them pleasure. On this even- 
ing, even young James Stuart found himself attended 
to, when describing the amusements of schoolboys here, 
and asking questions respecting those common in more 
southern lands. He had in a remarkable degree, probably 
as the result of this very fulness of sympathy, the faculty 
of drawing out the feelings of others. Mrs. Stuart in all 
her long acquaintance with Isabel had never heard her 
converse with less restraint, unveil more completely all the 
quick impulses and warm affections of her nature, than 
while comparing her remembrances of her own early 
home with Mr. Falconer’s account of life in Virginia, 
and preparing him for the variations from both which he 
would find in the scenes he was now visiting. Mr. Elliot 
came in about eight o’clock, and then followed communi- 
cations respecting Marion ; diverting accounts of diffi- 
culties into which his light, gay nature had betrayed him, 
and from which he had been extricated by his cousin’s 
discretion, and more gratifying proofs that he was, under 
that cousin’s influence, acquiring greater stability, and 
more earnest views of his duties. 

The evening seemed to Isabel but to have commenced 
when Mrs. Elliot’s carriage was announced. Reluctantly 
she rose and left the quiet coterie so much better suited to 


60 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


her taste, for Mrs Fenton’s soiree, and though this enter- 
tainment was pronounced by many to be the gem of the 
season, it appeared to her truly insipid. Through the 
artificial softness and studied flatteries of the gentlemen 
surrounding Grace and herself, a deep, manly voice, ex- 
pressive of earnest kindness wa3 sounding on her ear ; and 
above their flowing locks rose more than once to fancy’s 
view, a broad, bold brow, and eyes of command tempered 
with gentleness. 

The next morning at breakfast Mr. Elliot’s paper stood 
neglected at his side, while he descanted with unusual 
animation on the interesting qualities of the new acquaint- 
ance recommended to them by Captain Stuart. 

“ I shall call on him this morning, and if you are not 
engaged for this evening, I will ask him to come up and 
spend it here.” 

“ Why do you not ask him to dinner ?” inquired Mrs. 
Elliot. 

“ I intend to do so, but not to-day, I am too much en- 
gaged, and I do not wish to delay your acquaintance with 
such an agreeable person. You will be delighted with his 
anecdotes of Marion, with which, you know, we could not 
ask him to entertain a dinner party.” 

The mother was bribed ; she would be disengaged. 

Mr. Falconer came in the evening, and again with thal 
tact which only a kindly heart can bestow, he adapted 
himself to each, and won the encomiums of all. Grace 
was loud in her expression of admiration. “ The French 
talk of 7 ’air nolle” she exclaimed, “but his is Vair 
royale , and yet so kind and gentle. What a hero he 
would make if he were a soldier ; he ought to be in the 
army. Do you not think him like Captain Stuart, Is- 
abel V 9 

“ Like Captain Stuart !” Isabel repeated, with something 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


61 


like surprise that Grace could fancy she had ever seen an- 
other person like Mr. Falconer — “ Oh, no ! not at all.” 

“ I know he has not the same colored hair, or eyes, or 
shape of the face ; in short, that is not the kind of likeness 
I mean ; but they are certainly alike,” persisted Grace. 

Isabel did not answer ; a wise omission, as no argument 
could have made her perceive a resemblance that existed 
solely in the fancy of Grace, who having idealized Captain 
Stuart into a very heroic personage, now saw in Mr. Fal- 
coner the traits of her ideal. 

Mr. Falconer had been invited to call on the following 
morning, and accompany Mrs. Elliot to an exhibition of 
pictures. He accepted the invitation with evident pleasure. 
The exhibition contained many interesting pictures, but 
Mr. Falconer lingered longest over a dying Magdalen. It 
was a gem of art. The beautiful form lay extended in all 
the helpless languor of approaching death. Already his 
touch had paralyzed the muscles and unstrung the delicate 
nerves, but the heart still resisted his power, and in the cross 
laid upon the bosom, in the upturned position of the pallid 
face, and the rapt gaze of the darkening eyes, it was evident 
that heart was fixed on Him, the Divine, who, when others 
from their self-elevation looked disdainfully down upon her, 
spoke these words of gentle command, “ Go, and sin no 
more.” Words of divine power, which taught her that 
there was sympathy even for her, the outcast ; sympathy, 
and therefore hope — hope, and therefore salvation. 

“ You seem to prefer the Magdalen to the Madonna, Mr. 
Falconer,” said Mrs. Elliot, as she saw him still return to 
it, and stand with folded arms gazing earnestly upon it. 

“ I believe we are all more deeply touched by the Mag- 
dalen. Nothing can be lovelier than that Madonna,” he 
added, turning to a fine copy of Raphael’s celebrated pic- 
ure, “ it is woman in her sweetest aspect — love irradiates 

6 


62 


TWO LIVES : OR; 


every feature, yet it is earthly love, mother-love, tender 
but proud ; while in the Magdalen,” and his eyes were 
again riveted upon it, “ there is a touch of the angel’s ado- 
ration mingled with the sorrow of the mortal. Purity, 
with which our conscious hearts forbid us to feel full sym- 
pathy, sits throned on the fair brow of the Madonna, but 
here is one who we see at a glance has sinned and suffer- 
ed, and over whose sufferings love throws a halo of glory.” 

“ Different as the pictures are in character, they express 
the same sentiment — love,” said Mrs. Elliot. 

It was a flimsy, superficial view, and Mr. Falconer re- 
plied, “ Pardon me ; they both express love, it is true, but 
the one, as I have said, an earthly love — love for the babe 
of the manger ; the other, a love all heavenly, for the Di- 
vine Saviour. I thank you,” he continued, turning sud- 
denly, and as if forcibly away, “ I thank you for having 
brought me to see this picture ; I will think of it when I 
preach, and it will help me to depict the union of sorrow- 
ing penitence and trusting love in the pardoned sinner.” 

All eyes in the little party were turned with surprise 
upon him. 

“When you preach!” exclaimed Mrs. Elliot, “why 
surely you are not a clergyman.” 

“ Why not ?” he asked, with a smile. 

“ Why you do not look in the least like one.” 

The smile became a laugh, as he replied, “ I was not 
before aware that the members of my profession bore a 
personal likeness to each other.” 

“ Only a general family resemblance, in which, how- 
ever, you do not in the least participate ; besides, you do 
not converse like a clergyman ; I have not heard you say 
a word about religion.” 

Mr. Falconer’s countenance became suddenly grave, as 
he answered, “ I may not have spoken of religion, but I 


TO SEEM AND TO BE 


63 


trust you cannot convict me of having spent two hours in 
your company yesterday evening and one this morning, 
without speaking religiously .” 

“ I am not sure that I understand your distinction,” said 
Mrs. Elliot more gravely, for she began to perceive that 
he was in earnest in the asseition which she had hoped was 
only a jest. 

Mr. Falconer explained. 

“ There is no subject of interest to man,” he said, 1 that 
may not be treated religiously — that is, in such a manner 
as to exercise in ourselves and cultivate in others that 
heavenly spirit which Christianity enjoins, and which is 
the very essence of our religion ; and thus, I conceive, is 
every Christian minister bound to treat them.” 

Mrs. Elliot was silent. She continued polite and atten- 
tive to Mr. Falconer, but the life of their intercourse was 
gone, for she felt that there neither was, nor could be, any 
sympathy in their spirits. Grace too regretted this dis- 
covery. Should she have spoken the language of her 
heart, she would have exclaimed, “ What a noble soldier 
has been spoiled in this preacher !” She became reserved, 
constrained. Isabel alone remained unchanged by Mr. 
Falconer’s avowal. It had surprised her, but only for a 
moment ; her next sensation was wonder at herself that she 
could have been surprised at learning that so noble a being 
had devoted himself to the noblest of all professions. She 
was conscious of a pleasurable emotion in reflecting on 
what he had said ; a feeling of sympathy with him, a de- 
sire that she too in her humbler and narrower sphere might 
promote the cultivation of that heavenly spirit of which he 
had spoken. Even Mr. Elliot, on learning that Mr. Fal- 
coner belonged to the clergy, withdrew so much of his ad- 
miration from him as to decide that a dinner-party was an 
unnecessary compliment, though he gave him a very friend- 


64 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


ly general invitation to visit him. Of this invitation Mr. F al- 
coner occasionally availed himself, though not very frequent- 
ly, for, as he became more generally known, engagements of 
various kinds crowded upon him. Isabel met him often at 
Mrs. Stuart’s, where they spent many quiet evenings to- 
gether, as a slight interval of repose in the fashionablo 
world at this time left her more at liberty to pursue her 
own inclinations than she had lately been. And Isabel 
heard Mr. Falconer preach. She was invited by Mrs. 
Stuart one Sabbath morning to accompany her to her own 
church, she knew not for what especial reason, till, looking 
to the pulpit, she met the impressive countenance of her 
new acquaintance. 

There was something in the very action with which Mr. 
Falconer rose at the commencement of the service — some- 
thing in the deep, earnest tones which broke on the ears of 
the assembled worshippers, that awed the lightest spirit into 
reverence, and withdrew all thought — even the thoughts 
of Isabel — from the man, to fix them on the subject which 
rapt his own spirit into such fervent yet humble adoration. 
His sermon was not written, and therefore, there was no 
withdrawal of the eyes — those conductors of spirit — from 
his hearers. His manner was natural, graceful, and im- 
pressive, his tones deep and manly, at times grave and ear- 
nest, at times full of impassioned feeling, stirring the heart 
like a trumpet’s call. “ How can we escape if we neglect 
so great salvation ?” was his subject, and while he sketch- 
ed the greatness of this salvation — great in the depth of 
misery from which it rescued, great in the height of joy to 
which it elevated, great in the love which inspired, the 
wisdom which planned, the power which executed — and as 
he appealed to his hearers to pronounce in the depth of 
each heart how they could escape if they neglected it, the 
most thoughtless was spell-bound by his power — and Isabel 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


65 


gazed and listened as if on every word or look life hung 
suspended. 

Such powers cannot remain long unknown, and soon 
Mr. Falconer was sought, courted, complimented we were 
about to say, but that would have been wrong, for beneath the 
grave rebuke of his eye, flattery lost its glib and oily tongue, 
stammered and grew silent. Great was Mrs. Elliot’s sur- 
prise, when she found the fashionable world forsaking their 
usual haunts, to fill the churches in which it was known 
that Mr. Falconer would preach. She followed the fash- 
ion, and regretted that she had lost the opportunity to lead 
it. Those who have seen the change that too often monies 
over even the conscientious Christian preacher, over whom 
has passed the blighting breath of popular applause — those 
who have sorrowed to see the simplicity of the Gospel 
yielding to worldly glosses ; who have marked the affected 
airs of vanity displace lowly humility, and the man of God 
become the idol of the drawing-room, a petit maitre in dress 
and manners — may well tremble for Mr. F alconer ; but 
he was made of sterner stuff, than to be thus bent by the 
breath of man. How he passed through the ordeal the 
reader may judge from the following extract from a letter 
to his friend Captain Stuart. “ You ask,” he writes, “ what 
detains me in New York. I am not sure that I can an- 
swer the question. It is not, as my mother seems to ap- 
prehend, inability to travel, for my health is as vigorous as 
ever ; nor is it, as you suggest, any belief that I am doing 
good in my vocation, though I preach often and always to 
crowded churches — crowded with a very fashionable au- 
dience, who, if I judge aright, listen to me as they would 
do to a new opera-singer. I say this to you because you 
will understand the feeling it creates ; you know me too 
well to believe for a moment that I am flattered by it. 
They are attracted by the novelty of my style, by its very 
6 * 


66 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


want, perhaps, of that artificial polish, of those conventional 
restraints, to which they have been accustomed ; but they 
can little conceive the feelings with which I look around on 
the assemblage that they doubtless consider so flattering. 
How gladly would I exchange the applause of such hearers 
for the conviction that I had led one humble, simple, ear- 
nest spirit, in the stillness of the heart, to discard the 
world’s low motives, and to adopt as theirs the Christian’s 
faith, and the Christian’s hope.” 

In another letter, dated in June, Mr. Falconer writes: 
“ Tell Lieutenant Elliot that I have had much kind atten- 
tion from his father and mother. Mrs. Elliot has invited 
me to visit them at their summer residence on the Hudson 
river, to which they removed only a week ago. I shall go 
to them in a few days. Your lovely pupils — they are 
very lovely — still speak of ‘ dear Captain Stuart,’ as the 
best and kindest of language-masters.” 

Mrs. Elliot, in this invitation to Mr. Falconer, was 
making a bold stroke to recover the opportunity she had 
lost of attaching to her coterie so distinguished and popular 
a man. In the intimate intercourse and hourly kindnesses 
of home-life, she would soon efface all remembrance, if he 
still retained any, of the slight coolness that had marked 
her manner in their earlier association. She had a deeper 
interest in this subject, than even the desire to win for her- 
self the eclat of a patroness. She had learned from Marion 
that Mr. Falconer was the heir to large estates, and the 
descendant of one of the oldest and proudest families of the 
Old Dominion. With such advantages of fortune and 
social position, and such personal endowments, he was 
really the best match extant, and it would be injustice to 
her nieces not to make some effort to secure him for one 
of them. She had always intended Grace for Marion, and 
Isabel for Walter Stuart ; but Marion wrote lately with sc 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


67 


much seriousness of his attachment to a lady in Virginia; 
that she must relinquish all hope of the first. Walter and 
Isabel, she still thought, would make a capital match ; and 
if she could only persuade Grace to give up her inclina- 
tion for a military man, and take a clergyman instead, she 
should feel that she had done her duty by her young rela- 
tives. So easily, in imagination, did Mrs. Elliot deal with 
that subtle thing, the human heart. The next chapter may 
unfold to us how far her anticipations were likely to prove 
correct. 


CHAPTER VI. 

** Thus heavenly hope is all serene, 

And earthly hope, how bright soe’er, 

Still fluctuates o’er this changing scene, 

As false and fleeting as ’tis fair.” 

Townshend. 

“ My Father made them all !” was the exulting excla- 
mation of Mr. Falconer’s heart as he stepped abroad the 
morning after his arrival at Mr. Elliot’s country house, 
and gazed upon the beauty that surrounded him. He had 
arrived too late on the preceding evening to discern more 
than the dim outlines of objects, and he now found himself 
standing nearly on the summit of a lofty hill which fell on 
one side rapidly, almost precipitously, to the bed of a small 
stream, whose sheltered waters lay like an unruffled mir- 
ror, reflecting the beams of the just risen sun. On the 
west the descent was more gradual to the Hudson, beyond 
whose swift waves rose the Palisades, softened in their bold 


68 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


outline and rugged surface by the transparent curtain of 
mist which the sportive breezes blew hither and thither at 
their pleasure. Emerging from Mr. Elliot’s grounds, 
which were extensive and tastefully arranged, Mr. Falconer 
pursued the road leading through waving ‘fields of grain, 
o. flowery clover, or orchards of spreading trees, dovv n to 
the river. All the signs of active, industrious life were 
around him. Farmers were driving their teams to the 
hay-field, and from many a cottage-yard, as he passed, the 
cow came lowing forth on her way to the pasture-ground, 
having already yielded her daily portion of milk. Mr. 
Falconer was a true lover of nature, and now there was 
something of novelty in her aspect which rendered it doubly 
charming. He had walked about two miles from Mr. 
Elliot’s, and was again within a quarter of a mile of his 
house on his return, when he saw a little girl, apparently 
about ten years old, clad in clean but coarse garments, 
approaching him. Mr. Falconer stood still in the road, 
and the child was so intently conning the pages of a book, 
which she held open in her hand, that she was actually in 
contact with him before she observed him. She looked up 
with some terror at what the gentleman might think of her 
seemingly rude jostling, but as she met his eyes, the terror 
passed away, and a smile lit up her bright and healthy, 
though not handsome face. 

“ What pretty story are you reading ?” asked Mr. Fal- 
coner, who seldom passed any one without some expression 
of kindly feeling. 

“ I am learning my lesson, sir.” 

“ And are you going to school now ?” 

“ No, sir ! I don’t go to school ; I go up to the big house, 
and say my lesson to Miss Isabel.” There was a glow 
of pleasure on Mr. Falconer’s face as he heard that name, 
but he said nothing, and the little girl added, with a blush 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


69 


half of modesty and half of triumph, “ Miss Isabel says I 
shall soon read well enough to read the Bible for mammy. ,, 

“ And cannot mammy read it for herself?” asked Mr 
Falconer. 

“ Mammy’s blind,” said the child, with sadness in hei 
looks and tones, “ and I must hurry home to get her break- 
fast.” 

She dropped a courtesy, and was tripping on when Mr. 
Falconer stopped her again, with the question, “ Where do 
you live ?” 

“ In that house,” she answered, pointing to a very small 
one near by. 

“ And suppose I go with you and read the Bible to-day 
for mammy, would she like it ?” 

“ Oh yes, sir ! she always likes to hear that.” 

In a few minutes, Mr. Falconer was seated in the little 
cot by the side of poor blind Annie Linden. Annie had 
not been always blind. She married young, and when our 
little acquaintance — Isabel’s pupil — was only two or three 
weeks old, her husband, who had gone out with some 
fishermen, was drowned. His dead body was brought 
home to his wretched wife, and the shock brought on her 
an inflammatory fever, from which she recovered only 
with the total loss of sight. Hard was the struggle for 
many years for poor blind Annie to live and support her 
child, whose existence was the only thing that reconciled 
her to life. The neighbors helped her, however. One 
would hoe her little garden and sow her seeds — another 
would occasionally see that it was free from weeus — and a 
third would come in the autumn and dig her potatoes and 
gather in her beans. The women too would sew for her 
and her child, though Annie soon became almost as expert 
at using her needle without sight, as she had formerly been 
with it. In return for these kindnesses Annie would spin 


70 


TWO LIVES : OR; 


and knit. ' When Mr. Elliot’s family were in the country, 
Annie received much of her food from their table, but no 
one had thought of visiting her, till Mrs. Stuart had done 
so, during a visit to Mrs. Elliot. She found her grateful 
for aid, but thirsting for sympathy more refined than that 
of her rustic neighbors, and for communion with some in- 
telligent mind, from which she might learn more of the 
promises respecting that better land, where “ there is no 
darkness.” It was Mrs. Stuart who had led Isabel and 
Grace to this abode of poverty. Many of the comforts 
that now appeared around her humble home and perhaps 
awakened Mr. Falconer’s surprise, were their gifts. Grace 
had not been the least liberal in these presents, and she 
had won the heart of the little Lucy by various pieces of 
finery, more suited to her taste than to her position ; but 
Isabel visited Annie Linden, read to her, listened to her 
when she recounted her present trials, or dwelt on her 
happy memories, and it was of Isabel that she spoke most 
to Mr. Falconer this morning. 

“ Miss Grace gave me this pretty bonnet,” said the little 
girl, who thought Miss Grace had not received her due 
share of praise. 

“ Miss Grace is very good, but Miss Isabel spends many 
an hour teaching you to read, that I may not have to send 
you away for almost the whole day to the district school.’ 

Mr. Falconer parted from Annie Linden with a promise 
that he would see her soon again. 

“ I have been making a visit to one of your neighbors 
already,” said he to Mrs. Elliot, when they were seated at 
the breakfast-table. 

“ Ah ! to whom ?” asked that lady, with surprise. 

“ To a blind woman.” 

u Oh ! to Annie Linden — your protegee, Grace.” 

Grace blushed, for she felt that Annie Linden was quite 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


71 


as much, or more, Isabel’s protegee than hers. Mr. Fal- 
coner glanced on her, and then suffering his eyes to rest 
longer on Isabel, said with a smile, “ I met your puph, 
who took me home with her, and introduced me to her 
mother.” 

“ I am glad she did,” replied Isabel, quietly, anticipating 
no praise, dreaming of no rivalry, as the result of her at- 
tention to an ignorant child and a desolate woman. “ Poor 
Annie is made happy for days by a kind word.” 

“ I found that among all the benefits she had received 
none were so deeply felt as your visits.” 

Isabel colored, and Mrs. Elliot, who did not altogether 
like the course of affairs, exclaimed, “ I did not know she 
was such a gossip as to prefer visits to any thing else.” 

“ I do not think it is at all from a love of gossip,” said 
Mr. Falconer gently, a but you must remember that by 
her blindness site is shut out from all communication with 
the external world, except through the medium of others. 
Life would be to her solitary confinement in a dark cell, 
but for the friendly voices that sometimes greet her.” 

“ I never thought of that before,” exclaimed Grace, “ I 
will go to see her every day.” 

Mr. Falconer smiled on her, and Mrs. Elliot was better 
pleased. 

Grace was perfectly sincere in this expression of feeling. 
Mr. Falconer had aroused her sympathies, and she would 
at that moment have made a much greater sacrifice than 
an hour of her time daily to brighten poor Annie’s darken- 
ed life. Unfortunately these feelings, having no root in 
principle, were soon dissipated. 

In a few days, Mrs. Elliot began to perceive that things 
were not proceeding between Mr. Falconer and Grace as 
she could desire. And yet she found no difficulty in 
moulding Grace to her wishes — wishes whose ultimate 


72 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


object was still unrevealed to her, lest her delicacy should 
forbid her to aid in its attainment. 

Alas for Grace ! In the tenderness of her home her 
affections had been stimulated till they had become, as we 
have seen, the principles of her being. She was like 
those plants which, having no independent root, draw their 
sustenance from other trees. Her soul drew its life, not 
from the great Source of Being, but from human sources, 
from the impure fountains of earth. While she was in 
closest relation with the good, the true, the noble, she had 
seemed to partake of their nature, but her association, for 
nearly three years past, with lighter and less lofty spirits, 
had imparted to her less pure elements of character. The 
desire of love had degenerated into a thirst for admiration, 
and selfish vanity too often ruled her life. At present, 
Mr. Falconer was the only person within her reach, whose 
homage could minister to her vanity — Isabel was her only 
rival, and no effort was spared to attract the one, and 
eclipse the other. Never had she experienced so little 
success, and with the difficulty of the contest increased the 
desire for victory. All her accomplishments — and they 
were many — were exhibited, and exhibited in vain. Mr. 
Falconer talked of beautiful views ; from this the transition 
to landscape painting was easy, and at a hint from Mrs. 
Elliot, Grace produced her landscapes. They were spirit- 
ed, and Mr. Falconer praised them as they deserved, but 
he pointed out their faults with the freedom of a friend, 
and what was still less agreeable, he turned from them to 
ask if Isabel did not paint, to entreat for a sight of the pro- 
ducts of her pencil, which, when seen, obtained from him 
at least equal approval. Grace was remarkable for the 
grace, the correct taste, and impressive character of her 
recitation, and more than once, at Mrs. Elliot’s suggestion, 
she exercised this power for Mr. Falconer’s amusement. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


73 


\ 


Perhaps she was never more attractive to a man of in 
tellect and sensibility, than on these occasions ; her slight 
form instinct with grace ana feeling, her charming features 
lit by a loftier sentiment th an usually animated them, she 
seemed to glow with an enthusiasm, that for a time de- 
stroyed her self-consciousness, and consequently overcame 
her diffidence. While she uttered words of fire in tones of 
melody, Mr. Falconer gazed and listened with a kindling 
eye and heart, but it was to Isabel he turned for sympathy 
with the feelings thus excited. Mrs. Elliot had never 
seen so impracticable a man. It may be thought strange 
that this lady was not induced to modify her designs on 
Mr. Falconer’s heart in favor of her elder niece, but Mrs. 
Elliot had always great attachment to her plans, because 
they were her plans, and in the present case, she had an- 
other and a better reason urging her to perseverance. She 
had done all in her power to awaken in Grace a preference 
for Mr. Falconer, and she really believed she had suc- 
ceeded. Vanity often wears the guise of love so com- 
pletely, that we cannot wonder it should deceive a super- 
ficial observer like Mrs. Elliot. Nay, even the heart in 
which it throbs may, and does often, mistake the feeling 
that sends a quick glow to the cheek, and sparkle to the 
eye, at look or word in which- it reads anticipated triumph, 
or that causes it to shrink with a painful spasm, from the 
hated sound of a rival’s praise. 

And how was Isabel affected, amid these tumultuous 
desires and efforts ? She was in a dream in which of all 
that was passing around her she only saw that it was to her 
eyes Mr. Falconer turned for the expression of sympathy, 
that it was her sentiments he sought to elicit, in her pursuits 
he interested himself, that without a word of compliment 
he yet conveyed to her every hour the conviction that she 
had inspired him both with admiration and esteem, 

7 


74 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


The strength of Isabel’s heart had never been ex- 
hausted by enthusiastic fancies. Gentle but strong was 
the current of her affections. With a lofty ideal of true 
nobleness in man, she had found for the first time, in 
Mr. Falconer, the realization of that ideal ; and this being, 
at once so strong and so gentle, this “ bright, particular 
star,” to which the choicest spirits in her world did 
homage, looked down with kindliest influences upon her. 
Isabel had never asked if Mr. Falconer loved her, she 
had never attempted to analyze her feelings towards him, 
she only felt that since she knew him, especially since 
she had been thus domesticated with him, a new sense of 
blessedness had been added to her life, a deeper feeling 
of joyous thankfulness to Heaven had swelled her heart. 
She had been so accustomed to yield precedence to Grace, 
to see her brought forward by Mrs. Elliot into a more 
glaring light than she was willing to stand in, that she did 
not suspect the motives of the present display. 

And Mr. Falconer — did he comprehend the varied ele- 
ments of life around him ? He saw enough of Mrs. Elliot’s 
manoeuvres to smile at them. He read the vanity of Grace, 
and was scrupulously careful not to flatter it ; of softer 
feelings, or even of a design to excite softer feelings in 
him, he did not suspect her. Had he done so, he would 
scarcely have felt at liberty to remain in her society, and 
yet Mr. Elliot’s house held for him a great attraction — 
Isabel. He had never spoken to her a word of love. 
There was a modest dignity about her, which forbade too 
sudden an approach to such a subject; and yet there 
were times, when her gentle deference to his opinions, the 
sudden flush of her cheek or sparkle of her eye, at the 
discovery of some new point of sympathy between them, 
or some other of those nameless modes in which the heart 
of a sensitive woman often betrays itself to one of delicate 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


7a 


perceptions, before consciousness has taught her tha* 
she has a secret to guard, made his heart beat high with 
the hope that already amid her meek and vestal thoughts* 
his image was enthroned. At these moments, perhaps, he 
was most of all willing to be silent, for there was a charm 
in this unconscious betrayal, which he felt that a breath 
would destroy. Had doubt or apprehension for a passing 
instant shadowed the open brow of Isabel, he could not 
have preserved his silence ; future hope, present happi- 
ness, all would bave been cast on the hazard of a word, 
had there heen the remotest reason for supposing that 
word important to her peace. 

Mrs. Elliot was fruitful in devising means for withdraw- 
ing Isabel from Mr. Falconer’s society; Mr. Falconer was 
no less ready in evading her devices. 

“ Isabel,” said Mrs. Elliot one evening, just as the little 
party, beginning to revive from the languor of an un- 
usually warm day, had collected in a room overlooking 
the water, for the enjoyment of the breeze, “ will you 
finish this little piece of work for me this evening ? I 
would not ask you, but it is for your friend, Mrs. Stuart, 
and I want to send it to her by the morning’s boat.” 

Isabel took it cheerfully, and was about to order the 
argand lamp to be brought into the parlor in which they 
were sitting, but Mrs. Elliot anticipated this and exclaimed, 
“ I am sorry to send you from us, but my eyes will not 
bear the light of a lamp this evening ; suppose you take 
the work to your uncle’s study.” 

Isabel could make no objection, though she went reluc- 
tantly. It was a capital ruse, and Mrs. Elliot congratu- 
lated herself upQn its success; but her congratulations 
soon ceased. She had not had time to place Grace at the 
piano, with which she intended that she should entertain 
Mr. Falconer, when he rose, saying, “ If you will excuse 


76 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


me, Mrs. Elliot, I will go to the lamp for a few minutes. 
I received a letter this evening, which I have not yet 
read.” 

It was clear that Mr. Falconer was not a man to be 
easily managed. It seemed equally clear that his letter 
was not a letter to be easily read, for an hour passed away, 
and still he had not returned. Mrs. Elliot lost the ease 
and quietness of manner on which she prided herself. She 
moved about the room, now gazing from a window, and 
now lounging in a rocking chair, 

“ Every where by turns, and no where long.” 

Grace sat silent, and — must we say it ? — sullen, nursing 
her bitter thoughts, and really believing herself a very ill- 
used and miserable being. He would have had a profitless 
task, who should have undertaken to convince her that her 
life was not one of peculiar trial. What were youth and 
health, beauty, and fortune, and talent, devoted friends and 
numerous admirers, while Mr. Falconer bowed not at her 
feet ? And Isabel, who had shared her home, whom her 
father had taken to his bosom as another daughter ; Isabel, 
whom she had so loved, that she should be so ungrateful, 
so ungenerous, as to detain from her side the only being in 
whom she had ever felt the slightest interest. If Isabel 
loved him too, she could excuse it, but she did not, she 
could not love him, or she would make greater efforts to 
attract him. 

How little did Grace understand the feeling which 
prompted these hurried and inconsistent thoughts ! 

Mr. Elliot had fallen asleep on a couch. The sudden 
closing of a window aroused him, and starting up, he sud- 
denly began to address Mr. Falconer. 

“Mr. Falconer is not here, Mr. Elliot,” said Mrs. El- 
liot, in a tone which made as near an approach to tartness, 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


77 


as her really gentle nature and lady-like habits would 
permit. 

“ What ! is he still in the study with Isabel ? That is 
hardly fair for my little Grace; your aunt must invite 
some more company, you must have somebody to make 
the agreeable to you, while Mr. Falconer plays the devoted 
to Bella.” 

Mr. Elliot, as he spoke, had drawn Grace caressingly to 
him, but that speech was the one drop which her cup could 
not contain, and struggling wildly, she burst from the arms 
of her astonished uncle, and rushed sobbing from the room. 
There was no longer a doubt in Mrs. Elliot’s mind of her 
unfortunate attachment, and she sympathized, as we can 
only sympathize with sorrow which we are conscious of 
having, at least in some degree, caused. It was a sym- 
pathy so powerful, that it stimulated Mrs. Elliot to new 
exertion. The battle might not yet be lost, the fatal words 
not yet spoken. But every moment was of consequence, 
and the first step must be to interrupt the present dangerous 
tete-a-tete. Grace had scarcely left the room, Mr. Elliot 
had scarcely recovered from his surprise at her singular 
agitation, so far as to inquire its cause, when, having 
arrived at this conclusion, Mrs. Elliot rang the bell, and 
ordering refreshments into the study, turned to Mr. Elliot. 

“ What is the matter with Grace, did you ask ? I am 
sure I cannot tell, some girlish caprice which will be for- 
gotten to-morrow : but it is late, suppose we join Mr. Fal- 
coner and Isabel in the study,” she said lightly, as if 
thinking only of the present hour. 

The letter which Mr. Falconer had desired to read, was 
from his mother ; and he had spoken to Isabel of her, of 
what his father had been, of his regret that nature had 
denied him the sweet companionship of a sister, of his 
conviction of the necessity of woman’s influence to the 
7 * 


78 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


formation of true and complete excellence in man. His 
language grew more energetic, his tones lower and deeper, 
he expression of his eyes more tender and confiding. 
Isabel trembled with a new and strange emotion, which 
spoke more eloquently in her quickly throbbing heart, her 
glowing cheeks, and downcast eyes, than it could have done 
in words. A few minutes more, and those words would 
have been spoken ; those irrevocable words which would 
have indissolubly linked their earthly destinies; already 
they were formed in Mr. Falconer’s mind and trembled on 
his lips, when they were arrested by the entrance of Mr. 
and Mrs. Elliot. 

“ I fear, Mr. Falconer, you will begin to consider a visit 
to a New- York country-house as a very triste affair,” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Elliot. 

“ I — I assure you, I have found nothing in my own ex- 
perience, Mrs. Elliot, to justify such a conclusion,” said 
Mr. Falconer, as he cast a glance not in the least degree 
triste on his blushing companion. 

“For myself, I really need refreshments,” continued 
Mrs. Elliot, as she helped herself to some grapes ; “ Mr. 
Elliot has slept away the evening, and — ” 

“Nay, nay, only dreamed it away,” expostulated Mr. 
Elliot. 

“ Slept, slept, I repeat, and Grace has been as abstracted 
as a young poet inditing his first stanza to the moon ; a 
dozen such evenings would send me back to the city in 
the midst of the dog-days.” 

“ Better bring the city to you,” said Mr. Elliot. 

“ A capital suggestion ; I will act on it at once, before I 
sleep. Come with me to my room, Isabel, and help me 
arrange my list of eligibles for invitation.” 

“ Had you not better stay here and allow us to assist 
you ?” asked Mr. Falconer. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


79 


“ Oh, no ; Mr. Elliot is a cipher in such matters, and 
you have not lived long enough with us to understand yet 
what constitutes an eligible.” 

“ A person of agreeable qualities, who can amuse others 
and be easily amused in turn ; is not that the definition of 
eligible in this connection ?” 

u No, no ; that is the smallest possible fraction of its 
meaning. This agreeable person must belong neither to 
the nouveaux riches nor the anciens pauvres ; he must — ” 

“ Stay, stay ; pray enlighten me before you proceed : 
how would his connection with either of these classes affect 
his powers of pleasing V 9 

“ Excuse me, I will explain another time, but I must 
make my list now, and I see you will not aid me in it. 
Come, Isabel.” 

When Mrs. Elliot found herself in her own room with 
Isabel alone, instead of commencing at once with the sub- 
ject on which she had spoken so gayly, her countenance 
Became grave, her manner abstracted, and after remaining 
for several minutes perfectly silent, she looked suddenly 
up with the startling question, “ Isabel, are you in love 
with Mr. Falconer V 9 

Mrs. Elliot had taken the advice of an ancient critic, and 
plunged at once “ in medias res 99 

Isabel looked up and looked down, turned pale and turn- 
ed red, opened her lips to speak and closed them without 
uttering a sound, and when at length compelled to say 
something, could only repeat in fainter tones, “In love 
with Mr. Falconer!” 

“ Yes ; that is my question, straightforward and simple ; 
and I want a simple and straightforward answer ; are you,, 
or are you not in love with Mr. Falconer?” 

• “ Has Mr. Falconer said he was in love with me ?” was 

on Isabel’s lips, but there was a coldness and decision in 


80 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


her aunt’s tones and manner, which did not suit the am- 
bassadress of love j not to one who spoke and looked thus, 
could feelings be unveiled, which were not yet confessed 
even to herself, and Isabel’s reply was again an evasive 
exclamation of “ Oh, aunt ! how can you ask such a ques- 
tion ? What have I done to make you think that — that — ” 
she paused, and hung her head lower than before. 

“ Then you are not in love with him,” ejaculated Mrs. 
Elliot, ready to believe what she wished. “ My dear child ! 
what a load of misery does that assurance take from me ; 
now there is some hope for poor Grace.” 

“ Hope for Grace ! what do you mean, Aunt Elliot ?” 
asked Isabel, turning pale. 

“ Why, Isabel, surely you cannot have been so absorbed 
with yourself, as not to perceive how that poor child has 
suffered in the apprehension that Mr. Falconer was devo- 
ting himself to you. She has tried until to-night to con- 
ceal her feelings, but to-night, all attempt at self-control 
was abandoned, and she has gone to her room, weeping 
and miserable.” 

Isabel listened in dismay. The very revulsion of feel- 
ing which she experienced as she attempted to connect 
Grace and Mr. Falconer in her imagination, revealed to 
her the true condition of her own heart. Insensibly she 
had come to regard Mr. Falconer as her teacher, guide, 
and friend. He was connected with all her present joys 
and future hopes ; and now, all were vanishing from her 
grasp — all — joy and hope were alike melting into thin air. 
For the first time in Isabel’s life, a sense of injustice, 
where Grace was concerned, crept over her. Ever thus, 
from her childhood, had she been called upon to yield her 
wishes to those of Grace, and why should it be so ? was 
not she too a creature of God, made capable of pleasure' 
and pain, and with a right to the enjoyment of all bestowed 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


81 


on her by His Providence. She sat with her elbow resting 
on the table, and her hand pressed to her forehead, whil* 
these thoughts rushed rapidly through her mind ; unheed 
ing, even if she heard, Mrs. Elliot, who continued to min- 
gle the expression of present gratulation and hope with the 
description of past anxieties. Isabel’s heart grew hard 
within her. There was a marble rigidity about her fea- 
tures, a proud and cold expression in her eye, as she raised 
her head. She was about to disclaim all right on the part 
of any one to inquire into her feelings on such a subject, 
and all desire to be made acquainted with the feelings of 
Grace. It was time enough for inquiries or observations, 
when Mr. Falconer should profess a preference for either 
of them. As she looked up, Mrs. Elliot, awed by her 
manner out of her mood of self-gratulation, became sud- 
denly silent ; but after opening her lips to speak, Isabel 
dropped her head into her hand again, and remained mute. 
What had thus changed her purpose ? It was the memory 
of her vow. Its very words seemed suddenly to flash in 
characters of fire upon her brain. “ Her happiness shall 
be as dear to me as my own, nay, dearer ; for remember- 
ing that I owe all to her father, I will hold no possession 
too valuable, no feeling too powerful, no hope too dear to 
be relinquished, if her happiness demand the sacrifice.” 
It had been a rash vow, but she knew that he who would 
dwell with God, “ though he swear to his own hurt, changeth 
not.” And should she change, what would be her re- 
ward ? Even were she assured of Mr. Falconer’s love, 
could she be happy without the approval of her own con- 
science and the smile of God ? And could these be hers, 
if she hardened her heart against her cousin ? All was 
now a whirlwind of feeling. She could not reason on the 
probabilities of Mr. Falconer’s offering himself to Grace ; 
here was but one question for her, should she stand in the 


82 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


way of his doing so ? She rose suddenly, and turning to 
Mrs. Elliot, said with more than usual dignity, and per- 
haps, also with more than usual coldness of manner, “ You 
will oblige me, aunt, by not recurring to this subject. I 
must speak to Grace myself. You may rest assured, 
however, that I will never do any thing to make her un- 
happy.” 

“I knew you would not, Isabel,”* commenced Mrs. El. 
liot, but Isabel was gone ; she had now to act, not to talk. 
She approached the room in which Grace slept, and through 
which her own was entered. She laid her hand upon the 
latch of the door, but had no power to turn it. Her heart 
throbbed audibly, and relinquishing her purpose, she passed 
on to the farther end of the passage and stood before an 
open window. The evening was serene, but the very 
peacefulness of external nature was irritating to her ; fe- 
ver seemed throbbing in her pulses and coursing through 
her veins. She closed her eyes and leaned her head 
against the casement. The evening breeze blew cool and 
moist upon her brow, and brought to her at first scarce 
conscious ear, the low whispering of an aspen tree, and the 
plashing of the waves upon the pebbly beach. Who can 
tell the secret influence by which the harmonies of nature 
reproduce themselves in the soul of man ? These low, 
soft sounds were as “ the still, small voice,” hushing the 
tempest of her soul with “ Peace — be still.” They drew 
her thoughts from the bounded and finite, to the Infinite, 
the Everlasting. She prayed ; — not with words, for at 
that moment hers were feelings, thoughts for which she 
had no words — but in the deep stillness of her soul she laid 
herself at the feet, in the arms of Divine Love, and sought 
to lose all self-will, all earthly desire, in the composure of 
a confiding, childlike faith. Strength and peace flowed 
into her heart, and with calm resolution she moved again 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


83 


wowards the door, which she had lately left with such over, 
whelming emotion. She attempted to open it, but it was 
fastened within. 

“ It is I, Grace,” she said softly ; and with a quick, 
nervous movement, Grace unbolted the door and admitted 
her. Isabel would have spoken to her at once, but Grace, 
as if to render her doing so impossible, turned instantly to 
her bed, and knelt to offer the prayer which she had been 
accustomed from her childhood to present before she slept. 
It was a form — a good, and right form ; but we fear a 
form only, exercising no purifying or calming influence 
upon the heart, for, as Grace rose, instead of approaching 
Isabel with her usual good-night kiss, she lay down and 
closed her eyes as if in sleep. Isabel felt that now, if 
ever, must she speak, and drawing near the bed, she 
bent over Grace and said, “You have not said good-night 
to me.” 

“ Good-night ; I am too sleepy to talk, Isabel.” 

There was painfully curbed impatience in her tone. 

“ I hope you are not too sleepy to hear me talk, for I 
want to tell you, that — that you are entirely mistaken, 
quite wrong, if you suppose, as I understood Aunt Elliot 
to-night, that I have ever — that Mr. Falconer has ever 
spoken, ever said one word to me of — of love.” 

The last word was almost in a whisper, but Grace heard 
it, heard all, and her countenance changed visibly. This 
change, perhaps, should have been confirmation enough to 
Isabel of the truth of Mrs. Elliot’s report, but she would 
hear that truth from Grace herself, she would leave no 
room for doubt hereafter, to creep into her mind. 

“And now,” she said, “you will not let me feel that my 
aunt is regarded by you with more confidence than I. 
Tell me, whisper to me, if — indeed — you love him.” 

She had commenced in a light tone, but, spite of herself 


84 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


the few last words were uttered with difficulty, and came 
one by one, as if from her very heart. Grace did not 
speak, but a smile, a blush flitted across her fair face, and 
throwing her arms around Isabel’s neck, she laid her head 
upon her bosom. It was enough. Without a word Isabel 
withdrew from her embrace, and turning away, put out 
the light and went to her own bed ; not to sleep, but to 
“commune with her own heart, and be still.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ There will come a weary day, 

When, overtasked at length, 

Both love and hope, beneath the weight give way ; 

Then, with a statue’s smile, a statue’s strength, 

Stands the mute sister Patience, nothing loth, 

And both supporting, does the work of both.” 

Colerioge 

The morning sun, glancing through the waving curtain* 
of the window on her pillow, awoke Isabel from the 
troubled sleep into which she had fallen at daybreak. 
She could not for a moment tell why there was such a 
strange weight at her heart, and why the sunlight was so 
painfully glaring to her, but as the light footsteps of Grace 
in her own room fell on her ear, the events of the last 
evening flashed vividly, instantaneously upon her, and 
with that quick, restless movement that marks an excited 
mind, she started from her bed and commenced her toilet. 
How a true affection interweaves its influence into the 
most trivial, as well as the most important events of life ! 
Isabel had the day before made some difference in the ac« 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


85 


customed arrangement of her hair, a slight difference, buz* 
Mr. Falconer had seen and admired it, and instinctively 
she now sought to produce the same effect. Suddenly the 
thought arose in her mind,' “ I have now no right to seek 
to please him.” The braids fell from her trembling 
fingers, and she stood for some minutes with her hand 
pressed upon her eyes. She soon resumed her task, but 
her hair was arranged as usual. It was the first act of 
the sacrifice to which she had pledged herself. 

When Grace Elliot met Mr. Falconer this morning the 
color rose to her cheek, and she cast down her eyes with 
as much pretty consciousness as though he could have 
known all which she had confessed or implied to others. 
Isabel on the contrary grew paler, and deeper sadness stole 
over her face as he offered her his morning salutation in 
tones more tender and earnest than those in which he ad- 
dressed himself to others. The woman who resolves to 
discard from her affections an unworthy object, may shut 
down into her heart’s depths the agony for which she 
blushes. Pride may smooth the brow and brighten the 
eye, may deepen the glow upon the cheek, and call gay 
smiles to the lip when every nerve is quivering with the 
bitter anguish of disappointed or wounded affection ; but 
Isabel was stimulated by no such unhallowed passion. 
In holy stillness she had resolved to sacrifice a pure and 
blameless affection, a hope for which she had no cause co 
blush, to the obligation which should be in the eyes of 
all first and highest — the obligation to eternal rectitude 
and truth ; and now, humbly, quietly, with no false glare 
of romantic enthusiasm around her, in the glow of no fire 
kindled by earthly passion, but in the serene light of 
Heaven itself, sne went firmly, yet sadly, on her way. 
Again and again, during breakfast, Mr. Falconer turned a 
glance of tender inquiry to her clouded brow, but she 

8 


86 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


knew it not, for she avoided looking towards him. As 
Mrs. Elliot rose from the breakfast, she proposed a walk 
through the grounds. Mr. Falconer had taken his hat to 
accompany the ladies, but, observing that Isabel did not 
rise, he turned to her, and asked, “ Are you not going 
with us ?” 

“ No,” she replied, “ I — I believe I have some letters to 
write.” 

“You remind me that I have too,” said Mr. Falconer, 
laying aside his hat, and adding, as he turned to Mrs. 
Elliot, “ I think instead of indulging myself in a stroll 
this morning, I must write some letters.” 

Grace was already at the door and could not return, but 
she darted a reproachful glance at Isabel, who was too 
much absorbed in her own emotions to perceive it. Anx- 
ious to guard herself from the influence of looks and tones 
under which her resolution was becoming every instant 
more difficult to maintain, she was hastening from the 
room, when Mr. Falconer arrested her. 

“ May I ask you,” he said, “ to let me see that old his- 
tory of Virginia, of which you spoke to me yesterday. I 
am going to write to my mother, and she is such a lover 
of old legends, that I should like to give her some descrip- 
tion of the work.” 

Without a word of reply, Isabel turned towards Mr. 
Elliot’s study for the book. She stood before its shelves, 
but Mr. Falconer was at her side, and as she raised her 
hand to reach the volume he laid his upon it, and said gen- 
tly and respectfully, “ May I claim your attention for a few 
minutes.” 

“ The book — ” said Isabel, blushing and endeavoring to 
withdraw her hand, but Mr. Falconer seemed to have 
paused only to arrange his thoughts, and he now resumed. 
“ You cannot be unconscious, I think, of the deep interest 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


s: 


with which you have inspired me ; I might have still hesi- 
tated to express it, but you look sad this morning, and the 
desire is uncontrollable to win the right of sympathizing 
with your sorrow, the privilege of asking what disturbs 
you ; may I ask — ” 

Mr. Falconer became suddenly silent, for a deadly pale- 
ness had succeeded to the blush with which Isabel had 
heard his first avowal of regard ; a mist seemed gathering 
before her eyes, and trembling visibly, she grasped the 
shelves before her for support. He drew a chair to her, 
and having seated her, continued, “ You understand me, I 
am sure, and you will not keep me in suspense ; a word 
will make me happy, or a word will — ” he paused for a 
moment, then added with evident effort and in a lower tone, 
“ silence me forever.” 

Isabel moved her lips, but his intently listening ear 
could catch no sound. He bent his head lower, and said 
in a voice which betrayed his agitation, “ One word only ; 
may I hope ?” 

In a hoarse whisper she replied, “ I cannot ; it is not 
possible for me — ” 

She was again silent. Can any wonder that she found 
it hard to put the cup of joy untasted from her lip. 

“ Would you say that you cannot give me the hope I 
ask ?” questioned Mr. Falconer. 

Isabel bowed her head. He attempted no remonstrance, 
offered no solicitation, but stood as if stunned at her side, 
till Mrs. Elliot’s voice was heard approaching the house, 
then, uttering a fervent “ God bless you,” he darted from 
the room. 

Half an hour after this scene, Mrs. Elliot entered the 
study and found Isabel still seated where Mr. Falconer 
had left her. Her fhce still wore the pallid hue, and fixed, 
despairing look with which the effort necessary to crush 


88 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


out hope from his heart and her own had impressed it. It 
was as if her very spirit had been stiffened b*y that effort 
into stone, and would wear forever the form into which 
that hour had moulded it. 

“ What is the matter, Isabel V 9 asked Mrs. Elliot. 

Isabel looked up with a bewildered expression, rose 
languidly from her chair, and without answering, walked 
slowly from the room to her own apartment, conscious 
only of a feeling of utter exhaustion — the weariness of an 
overtasked spirit. 

About noon of the same day, Mr. Elliot and Mr. Fal- 
coner entered the room in which Mrs. Elliot and Grace 
were seated ; the one engaged in writing invitations to her 
eligibles, the other trifling with a piece of embroidery. 

“ Ladies, 5:1 said Mr. Elliot, “ I bring you a subject for 
your eloquence. Your dull evenings or your threatened 
gayeties are about to drive Mr. Falconer away ; he says 
he must leave us in this evening’s boat.” 

Grace did not raise her eyes, but her varying color 
showed her emotion, while Mrs. Elliot exclaimed, “ Leave 
us ! Is this so, Mr. Falconer V 

Mr. Falconer smiled at her incredulity, as he expressed 
his regret at being compelled to leave them somewhat 
earlier than he had anticipated ; but despite his smile his 
eyes wore the heavy aspect of sorrow, and Mrs. EHiot 
ventured to express the hope that he had received no un- 
pleasant intelligence from home. 

“ None whatever,” was the reply, which certainly threw 
no light on his motives. 

“ I shall see Lieutenant Elliot soon ; pray do not let me 
go without any token of remembrance from his home. 
As the boat does not pass till five o’clock, you will have 
several hours to prepare your packages for him,” said Mr. 
Falconer 5 pleased, it is probable, to divert attention from 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


89 


himself. He soon withdrew to his own room to pack his 
trunks, leaving Grace and Mrs. Elliot to reflections of no 
pleasing character. Bitterly did Grace deplore the indis- 
cretion into which she had been led the last evening by 
the impulses of wounded vanity and exacting self-love. 
She had betrayed Mr. Falconer’s influence over her, and 
now all would see that she had no influence over him. 
She would appear to all contemned, slighted, rejected. 
She longed to be alone, yet had not courage to leave the 
room, but sat as if spell-bound, with burning cheeks and 
downcast eyes, and throbbing heart. Mrs. Elliot too had 
her own regrets in relation to this subject ; regrets, which 
like those of Grace, were not unaccompanied by self- 
reproach. She dared not meet the eyes of Grace lest she 
should read in them the charge, “ You have exposed me 
to this sorrow by awakening my interest in him, exciting 
my desire to please him, and unveiling to others the feel- 
ings you had yourself aroused.” She was becoming in 
some slight degree conscious of the terrible responsibilities 
assumed by thpse who undertake to direct the affections 
and control the destinies of another. With a muttered 
excuse of looking for something to send to Marion, she 
hurried from Grace, who, relieved by her absence, waited 
only for the closing of a distant door, to assure her that 
she would not meet her aunt on the way, before she too 
stole away, like a guilty thing, to her own apartment. 

Of all who met that day at Mr. Elliot’s dinner-table, he 
alone had no secret emotion connected with his guest’s ap- 
proaching departure. His regrets were spoken warmly 
and frankly. Mrs. Elliot scarcely ventured to allude to 
hers, lest some word should touch too deeply the susceptible 
heart of GKice. Mr. Falconer strove to lead the conver- 
sation from himself and his movements to Walter Stuart 
and Marion Elliot, but though he said little of his own 

8 * 


90 


TWO LIVES : OR. 


feelings in bidding farewell to his kind entertainers, hia 
subdued tones, his heavy eyes, and occasionally vague re- 
nlies, seemed sufficiently indicative of sorrow. Isabel, 
when first informed of Mr. Falconer’s intended departure, * 
knew not whether most to fear or to desire another inter- 
view with him. She proposed remaining in her own room 
on the plea of a severe headache, but Mrs. Elliot declared 
her doing so when Mr. Falconer was leaving them proba- 
bly forever, would be very disrespectful to him ; and pale, 
silent, and subdued, she accompanied her aunt to the 
dining-room. 

“ Grace, my love,” said Mrs. Elliot, as they were pla- 
cing themselves at table, “ sit on this side, and give your 
cousin your seat ; she has a bad headache, and the light 
in her eyes would increase it.” 

This arrangement placed Isabel opposite to Mr. Fal- 
coner, and Grace at his side, where any telltale emotion 
might pass unperceived by him. But Grace seemed to 
have no emotion requiring concealment; at least, he 
must have looked beyond the outward signs, who had 
discerned any in her animated face, her gay words or 
frequent laugh. Mrs. Elliot, it is true, suspected that 
the glow on her check was but the flush of excitement, 
and saw or fancied the dark current of pride mingling its 
bitter waters with the sparkling flow of her light words 
and her bright smiles. Isabel frequently turned her eyes 
with a feeling of wonder upon Grace. Once, as she 
withdrew them, she encountered Mr. Falconer’s glance, 
and in an instant, cheeks, neck, and brow were crimsoned. 

The dinner was at an end. Mr. Falconer’s baggage 
had already been sent to the point at which the steamboat 
usually stopped to take in passengers. The time was ap- 
Droaching when he must be there himself. Mr. Elliot 
proposed that they should all accompany him — “ Except 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


91 


you, Isabel,” he added ; “ it is still quite sunny, and I can- 
not let you walk so far with a headache. Poor child ! you 
look quite ill with it.” 

Isabel made no remonstrance. She scarce knew what 
she desired to do. She grew every moment more and more 
wretched, more and more passive, because more and more 
hopeless. Mrs. Elliot and Grace left the room to get their 
bonnets, Mr. Elliot walked to the piazza, to look up the 
river for the steamboat — Mr. Falconer and Isabel were 
alone. He approached her ; she felt rather than saw that 
he was at her side, and scarcely breathed with agitated 
expectation. 

“ You suffer for me,” he said gently, “ and dear as your 
sympathy is, I am grieved at your suffering. Let me re- 
mind you that I am not without consolation ; that life can- 
not be all joyless to the Christian, who sees in its least at- 
tractive aspect the lineaments of Divine love, and to whom 
it ever presents a high and Holy hope.” 

“Here is the steamboat!” cried Mr. Elliot from the 
piazza. 

“ And here are the ladies !” responded Mrs. Elliot from 
the stairs which she was descending with Grace. 

“ Farewell ! — Peace be with you ?” whispered Mr. Fal- 
coner. 

One moment’s clasp of the hand, one glance long re. 
membered by each — and they had parted. 


92 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


* 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ Thy joys 

Are placed in trifles, fashions, follies, toys ; 

Thou hast sought pleasure in the world around 

That in thine own pure bosom should be found.” 

Crabbc 

" From the grape thou hast shaken the delicate blue, 

What you’ve touch’d, you may take — pretty waltzer, adieu i” 

Mrs. Elliot did not send out her invitations, for Mr. 
Falconer’s departure had wholly changed her plans. In- 
stead of spending the summer at her country-seat, as she 
had intended, she resolved to go to Saratoga. There, 
Grace would be diverted, her attention would be drawn 
from the past, and she would forget Mr. Falconer, perhaps 
replace him by another, less insensible to her charms. 
Isabel too was looking ill ; she moved languidly, had lost 
her spirits and appetite, and evidently wanted change. But 
to Mrs. Elliot’s surprise, when the change to Saratoga was 
proposed, Isabel declined being one of the party, entreated 
to be left at home with her uncle, and urged her wishes so 
strongly, and even vehemently, that she gained Mr. E/liot’s 
permission to do as she pleased. 

For a week Mr. Elliot’s household was kept in all the 
oustle of preparation, for the projected gayeties of Mrs. 
Elliot and Grace. Isabel readily gave her assistance, 
when assured that she would not be required to participate 
in them; yet in the midst of her generous labors, she 
looked with surprise upon Grace, who now exhibited all 
the ardor of expectancy, wondering how one who loved 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


93 


Mr. Falconer could turn so quickly from the contemplation 
of his high qualities, from sympathy with his noble pur- 
suits and lofty aims, to the graceful follies of fashion. 

“ Good-by, Isabel ! you are a silly child to stay and mope 
here, when you might be a belle at Saratoga.” 

“ Good-by, Bella ! I think you were very unkind, not 
to come with me ; you know I can only be half happy 
without you.” 

Such were the parting salutations of Mrs. Elliot and 
Grace, to which Isabel listened without the slightest desire 
to recall her decision. She was alone, and she breathed 
more freely. Her very thoughts had seemed constrained 
in the presence of those who had so little understood or so 
little regarded her feelings. The ease with which Grace 
turned to other objects for relief from the memory of that 
impression, to which she had sacrificed the dearest hope of 
her life, 'could not but make her sacrifice more bitter. 
While another’s suspicion of its costliness would have been 
inexpressibly painful to her delicacy, she was yet, with an 
inconsistency too common to our perverted nature, both 
piqued and grieved by the utter unconsciousness of her 
sufferings manifested by all around her. With her quiec, 
unobservant uncle for her only companion, she now yielded 
herself without restraint to her memories of the past, and 
her regret for the present. These were all that life seem- 
ed to contain for her. Future she had none. Alas for 
human nature ! how often is it thus ! We meet some great 
and unexpected trial — our sinking spirits cry in their ago- 
ny to Heaven for help, and we receive it. In the strength 
of the Holy One we conquer, and then, forgetful that the 
fount from whence we have drawn is inexhaustible, we 
turn again to the broken cisterns of earth, and we sink, 
faint, despairing, and ready to die. 

Fortunately for Isabel, before this abandonment to hei 


94 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


feelings had made fatal inroads on her physical or mental 
constitution, Mrs. Stuart, having heard of her loneliness, 
came to make her a visit. It was soon evident to her, who 
looked with a loving eye into the hearts of all around her, 
that her young friend was not as she had been. 

“ How have you employed yourself since your aunt and 
cousin left you ?” she asked of Isabel, the morning after 
her arrival. 

“ I do not know,” she answered confusedly, “ I — I have 
done very little.” 

“ Have you read the books I selected from the library 
for you when your uncle was in the city last ?” 

<( I have not.” 

“ I hope you have not forgotten your promise to gather 
and press some of the summer flowers for W alter’s herba- 
rium. I have some hope, from a passage in his last letter, 
that he means to come for them himself this autumn.” 

“ I have not pressed any yet.” 

“ Then we will do it together. Suppose we begin to- 
day ; I want to make a visit to Annie Linden, and we can 
take a basket with us, and bring back some flowers.” 

This was but one of many kind devices by which Mrs. 
Stuart contrived to draw Isabel out of herself, to commu- 
nicate to each passing hour some interest, and provide for 
it some healthful employment. But she felt that the two 
w r eeks allotted to her visit was an insufficient time to fix 
the bond of habit on the soul of her friend, and she feared 
that when the stimulus of her society was withdrawn, the 
influences from which she had been striving to rescue her 
would again triumph. Of the nature of these influences, 
whatever she might suspect, she had no certain know- 
ledge, and she could not therefore by any direct appeal to 
higher principles, arouse Isabel to struggle with and to 
subdue them. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


95 


The day before that appointed for Mrs. Stuart’s return, 
found the friends, at set of sun, within a room overlooking 
the river, whose placid bosom glowed with the rich gold 
and crimson of the western sky. All abroad was tranquil, 
but troubled thoughts were in the hearts of those who 
gazed upon the scene. 

“ I grieve to leave all this beauty and sweetness for the 
impure air, and the close, hot streets of the city,” said 
Mrs. Stuart. 

“ And I grieve to part with you. I fear — ” Isabel 
paused. 

“ Why do you hesitate, Isabel ! If you regard me as a 
friend, you should speak your fears as well as your hopes 
to me.” 

“ I fear that when you are gone, I shall become again 
as idle and listless as you found me.” 

‘ ‘ Not if you are convinced that such idleness is wrong. 
If I have aroused you to this conviction, I have done all 
for you that a friend can do, the rest must be your own 
work.” 

There was a long pause, and when Isabel spoke again it 
was in low and faltering accents. 

“Are there not circumstances, feelings, under whose 
influence we become — all things become too indifferent t( 
us to excite us to action ?” 

“ There are such circumstances, doubtless, occurring in 
the life of all : but where is our Christian faith if we yield 
to their influence ?” 

“ How can we resist it ? When we have no hope, no 
desire — for what shall we act ?” 

“No hope ! no desire ! — can this ever be to the Chris- 
tian ? What earthly circumstances can efface from his 
spirit the hope of a blessed immortality, the desire to be 
moulded into the ‘ beauty of holiness V ” 


96 


TWO LIVES : OR. 


“ Life seems so long when we suffer,” said Isabel, feel, 
ing perhaps that the hope of which Mrs. Stuart had spoken 
was placed by this impression at a greater distance from 
us, and that its power was consequently diminished. 

“ Life is long indeed, but only when we take into view 
our whole existence. That part of it which is spent on 
earth would seem very short to us if we regarded it as the 
school of Heaven, the place in which our powers are dis- 
ciplined for their appropriate spheres. Ah, Isabel ! were 
such a view of life habitual with us, how differently we 
should regard its events — with what simple, childlike trust 
we should yield ourselves to our Father’s discipline !” 

Tears filled the eyes of Isabel, and hiding them for an 
instant on Mrs. Stuart’s shoulder, she murmured, “ I wish 
I could be always with you, that I might learn to think and 
feel thus.” 

“ That must be taught of Heaven, dear Isabel ; but re- 
member, it is not to the inactive, but to him who does the 
will of our Heavenly Father, that He promises His teach- 
ings. I should be rejoiced to remain with you, while your 
aunt and Grace are away, but that is impossible, and I 
cannot ask you to go with me to the city at this season.” 

“ I do not care for seasons ; I should be delighted to 
go.” 

Mr. Elliot, on being consulted, was no less pleased with 
this arrangement than Isabel, as he said he had business 
requiring his presence in the city, which he had hitherto 
neglected, because he did not like to leave her alone. His 
house in town having been accordingly prepared for their 
reception by his orders, Isabel and he returned to it about 
the middle of August. To the letter announcing their re- 
moval, Mrs. Elliot replied as follows ; 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


97 


Saratoga, Aug. 20th, 1828. 

My dear Isabel, 

I am really astonishcc at your uncle, for permitting you 
to do any thing so wild as returning to the city in August 
— the very worst season of all others. I have written to 
him to-day, advising that he should put you under the care 
of some person coming to Saratoga as soon as possible after 
receiving my letter. He will find no difficulty, I think, 
in obtaining a proper escort for you. 

Grace is delighted here, and well she may be. She 
has attracted the most unbounded admiration. “ La belle 
Georgiane,” she is called by — whom do you think ? — our 
old acquaintance, the Marquis de Villeneuve, who, having 
made the tour of the United States, and spent the last win- 
ter in the West Indies, is now here with the intention of 
embarking for France from New York in the autumn. 
But to return to “ La belle Georgiane,” — the admiration 
of the Marquis was enough to put the stamp of fashion on 
her beauty, and not the less because some people misun- 
derstood the term, and supposed it meant a Circassian. 

Grace has just come in to say that she is going to ride 
with the Marquis.de Villeneuve. He is quite devoted to 
her. I shall not be surprised if you are one day cousin to 
a Marquise. How fortunate that her penchant for Mr. 

F should have passed off so harmlessly ! Good-by. 

I must go and see her dressed. She is to wear for the first 
time a riding-cap and habit, which I received from the city 
for her yesterday. Should you come, you had better order 
a cap of the same fashion from Mrs. Childs, and a habi: 
from Mad. Smatz. 

Love to Mrs. S- In great haste. 

Your affectionate aunt, 

M. Elliot. 


9 


98 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


The success of Grace in the fashionable world did not 
tempt Isabel from her seclusion. She felt that if happi- 
ness were again to be hers, it must be from the cultivation 
of high and spiritual views of life, such views as might be 
attained in devout contemplation of its Author, its aims, its 
end, or in the fostering of its gentle charities, and the 
practice of its earnest duties ; not from a participation in 
its vain shows, its heartless pageants, and frivolous dissi- 
pations. These last may heal the wounds of vanity, but 
over the deeper emotions of the heart they are powerless. 
In accordance with these impressions she wrote to her 
aunt, repeating her desire to remain at home with Mr. 
Elliot, but before the letter was sent circumstances oc- 
curred which caused a change in her decisions. 

“ I have brought a visiter with me, who will insure me 
a welcome,” said Mrs. Stuart, as with more than usual 
cheerfulness of looks and movement, she entered the parlor 
in which Isabel and Mr. Elliot were at breakfast. 

Glancing quickly through the open door, with a feeling 
of disappointment for which she blushed, Isabel saw Wal- 
ter Stuart and her cousin Marion approaching. They had 
arrived in New- York late in the preceding night, and 
Marion, supposing his family all in the country, had gone 
to Mrs. Stuart’s with Walter. 

“ And so my mother and Grace are at Saratoga. I 
think the wisest thing we can do is to join them there. 
What say you to it, Walter ?” exclaimed Marion, after 
the first greetings were over. 

“ I have been already proposing it to my mother,” re- 
plied Captain Stuart, “ my decision must wait on hers. I 
cannot afford to spend an hour of my six weeks’ leave of 
absence away from her.” 

Tears of grateful joy rushed to Mrs. Stuart’s eyes, as 
she cast them on her son ; they were still glistening when 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


99 


she turned them on Isabel to ask, “ Will you go with 
us?” 

“ Certainly she will,” said Mr. Elliot ; “ I will lay my 
commands on her, if they are necessary ; she must not 
mope here with a dull old uncle, while you are all enjoy- 
ing yourselves.” 

“ And will you not go with us, sir ?” asked Marion of 
his father. 

“ No, my son ; business first you know : but you will 
not be long gone ; it will soon be getting too cold for Sara- 
toga, and your mother and Grace will be glad to return 
with you.” 

Saratoga ! Brilliant Saratoga ! to lend splendor to whose 
circle, stars of the Northern and Southern hemispheres, 
forgetful of all natural divisions, peculiar institutions and 
the like, shine forth in friendly union, side by side. It was 
the last week of August, and anticipating an early termina- 
tion to their butterfly existence, from the chill breezes of 
September, belles and beaux determined to make the most 
of what remained to them of pleasure, dressed, and danced, 
and flirted as they had never done before. Balls were 
more frequent, and each ball more brilliant than the last. 
Mrs. Elliot abandoned herself to the interests of Grace, 
with what she considered the most generous regard ; though 
the generosity might, in the opinion of some, be greatly 
diminished by the pleasure with which she anticipated a 
visit to Paris, as the guest of her niece, the Marquise de 
Villeneuve. Whatever was the character of her motives, t 
she certainly spared neither trouble nor expense in dec- 
orating the beautiful person of Grace, and in aiding her 
by her greater experience of life, her more extended know- 
ledge of men and manners, in achieving for herself so high 
a destiny. Mrs. Elliot had been, at first, confident of suc- 
cess. The Marquis was so attentive, and looked so ad. 


100 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


miringly, who could doubt that he loved ? But beyond 
this Cape of Good Hope, he had not advanced one step. 
He still danced, and walked, and rode with Grace oftener 
than with any other lady, sang only to her guitar, taught 
her amatory duets with most expressive looks and tones, 
and gave her lessons in ecarte ; but with all this he mingled 
not one word of serious love-making. There was a certain 
tone which marked to all, and to none more plainly than to 
Mrs. Elliot and Grace, that the Marquis de Villeneuve 
was still his own master. Grace became piqued at this 
continued resistance of her power, and entered with great- 
er spirit and interest into her aunt’s designs. 

“ The result only, my dear Grace, can prove to the 
world whether the Marquis really admires you, as I be- 
lieve, or whether he is only playing with you, as I over- 
heard that spiteful Mrs. Smith telling a lady.” 

“ But the world can know nothing of the result, unless I 
admire him too.” 

“ That will be taken as a matter of course. Young la- 
dies seldom fail to admire a gentleman of pleasing person 
and agreeable manners, who adds to these recommendations 
the title of Marquis, and an income of, they say, twenty 
thousand dollars a year.” 

“ But I really do not think him either very handsome or 
very agreeable.” 

“ Not very , perhaps ; but you will take the Marquisate 
and twenty thousand a year, in the place of that little 
word.” 

“ Indeed, I have no such intention, aunt. The Marquis 
may do very well as a partner in a ball-room, but for life 
— excuse me,” and with a light laugh, Grace turned to 
leave the room. 

“ Come back, Grace, and listen to me,” cried Mrs. 
Elliot. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE, 


10J 


Grace returned as gayly as she had gone. 

“You have been very wrong, Grace, very indiscreet/' 
said her aunt gravely, “ if you have indeed, as you say, no 
design to accept the Marquis, to receive such attentions 
from him as you have done ; such very particular atten- 
tions. Every one believes you attached to him.” 

“ Then every one has made a great mistake, which f 
must take some trouble to correct. Attached to the Mar- 
quis de Villeneuve! Mistake, indeed!” and the smile 
on the lip of Grace gave place to a pout scarcely less be- 
coming. 

“ And how, pray, do you expect to correct the mistake V 
asked Mrs. Elliot. 

“ By declining all his attentions, general and particular, 
for the future.” 

“ And so be set down as a disappointed young lady, act- 
ing from pique.” 

Grace was silent for a moment, and when she spoke 
again, it was no longer in such light accents as she had 
hitherto done. “It seems I am to be equally blamed, 
whether I receive or decline his attentions ; I am sure, I 
do not see what people would have me to do.” 

“ You have been very, imprudent, certainly, Grace, in 
going so far with one whom you never intended 3 marry. 
To retreat now is impossible.” 

“ You do not mean that I must marry him,” exclaimed 
Grace, in consternation. 

“ I am not at all sure that such a termination of the di- 
lemma will be possible for you ; Mrs. Smith may be right 
after all. What I mean is, that if you would maintain 
your position in society, and avoid ridicule, you must now 
proceed in your present course, till you bring the Mar- 
quis to offer himself ; then you may reject or accept him, 
as you please.” 


9* 


102 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


“ Would it be quite right, quite honorable,” said Grace, 
hesitatingly, “ to reject him then ?” 

“ That you must decide for yourself ; all I would impress 
on you is, that nothing is so fatal to a woman’s success in 
life as the reputation of having been slighted.” 

The color which flushed the brow of Grace, showed that 
Mr. Falconer was not quite forgotten. 

“ There is one comfort, Grace,” said Mrs. Elliot, rising, 
as if the conference were at an end, “ there is little danger 
of any tragic termination to the Marquis. I do not think 
he will break his heart, act as you will ; and for yourself, 
I repeat to you, for caprice, injustice, inconstancy, for 
every thing short of crime, the world readily forgives a 
woman ; these qualities seem sometimes, in the estimation 
of men, even to add piquancy to her charms, but she must 
be a bolder dame than I, who could risk the laugh that 
follows one on whom rests the least suspicion of having 
been deceived and deserted.” 

Again the blood rushed to the very temples of Grace, 
and with a laugh, which sounded not quite natural, she ex- 
claimed, “ Deceived ! not much danger of that, I think.” 

“ I hope not, nothing would give me greater delight than 
to be able to insinuate gently to that Mrs. Smith, that the 
Marquis had made you an offer.” 

Grace silently vowed that nothing should be wanting on 
her part to accomplish so desirable an object. Never had 
her toilette received so much attention, as on the evening 
succeeding this conversation, and never had attention been 
crowned with more complete success. Anticipated tri- 
umph sparkled in her eyes, glowed in her cheeks, and 
wreathed her lips with smiles, as she entered the brilliant- 
ly lighted ball-room, accompanied by her still beautiful 
and always graceful aunt, Mrs. Elliot. The Marquis de 
Villen euve came forward to meet them, conducted them to 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


103 


pleasant seats, and hovered about Grace with more than 
usual empressement in his gallantry ; yet, though she was 
led from his side again and again by other partners, he 
did not ask her to dance. When Grace was dancing, 
and she could not therefore be suspected of manoeuvring 
for her, Mrs. Elliot asked, with seeming carelessness, “ Do 
not you intend dancing this evening, Monsieur de Ville- 
neuve ? There is room for another cotillion on the floor, 
and yonder is one of the prettiest girls at Saratoga sitting 
still.” 

The Marquis raised his glass, gazed long at the lady 
indicated, then lowering it, and turning to Mrs. Elliot, ex- 
claimed, “ Very pretty, very pretty indeed, but she wants 
style, fashion.” 

“ Nevertheless she dances well, I assure you.” 

“ It may be, but she does not valse , I am sure, and I am 
tired of all these dances without character. The Ameri- 
can ladies are charming, very charming, mais un peu 
prudes. Pardon my French : I could not be so bold to say 
it in English.” 

“ I will not permit you to say it in any language, of all 
American ladies.” 

The Marquis shrugged his shoulders, with a doubtful 
smile. 

“ Come, confess, that is too sweeping a censure,” said 
Mrs. Elliot. “ Except — ” 

“ Whom ? You shall make the list, and I will sub- 
scribe it — that is to say, if I can.” 

“ Well, first on the list I will write, myself.” 

The Marquis bowed. “We have a proverb that says, 
‘ les presens ont toujour s raison ” 

“ My niece, Miss Elliot — ” 

“ Is perfection in America, or if she have any faults, 
bIm* xiakes us in love with them ; but in Paris — pardon me 


104 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


— I have no right to speak so — I was so interested, I for 
got—” 

“ Pray make no apologies for what 1 am so desirous to 
hear. So Grace would not be admired in Paris.” 

“ I did not say that ; she could not help to be admired, 
but when they find she did not valse, because she thinks it 
an impropriety, it would take all her beauty to make her 
excuse.” 

“ Has she ever refused to waltz with you ?” asked Mrs. 
Elliot, significantly. 

“ There was something in her manner when I spoke of 
waltzing, which made me not dare to ask her.” 

“We have proverbs as well as you, and one of them is, 
‘ Faint heart never won fair lady.’ ” 

“ I thank you,” said the Marquis, bowing, “ I will not be 
faint heart any more.” 

Grace was soon seen returning to her aunt. Mrs. Elliot 
advanced to meet her. 

“ My dear Grace,” she exclaimed, “ how warm you 
look ! Pray, Mr. Howard, get her a glass of lemonade. 
Monsieur de Villeneuve, will you be so kind as to ask 
Mrs. Emmet for Miss Elliot’s fan ; I lent it to her a mo- 
ment since. Ah ! yonder she is, in the other room.” 

The gentlemen bowed and departed, and Mrs. Elliot 
was at liberty to whisper to Grace, “ The Marquis is going 
to ask you to waltz, and you must not refuse.” 

“ Oh, aunt !” 

“ He has acknowledged to me that this prudery, as he 
considers it, is your only fault in his eyes ; but that this 
quite unfits you for Paris : so, you see, every thing de- 
pends on your overcoming it. By the by, he admires 
Miss Danforth very much, and if you refuse, he will not, 
I suspect, be long without a partner. Just look at that 
spiteful Mrs. Smith, how she is whispering and laugh. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


105 


ing. Ah, Marquis ! you have brought the fan. Thank 
you.” 

“ Permit me .to use it.” And leaning over the back of 
the chaise longue on which Grace was seated, the Mar- 
quis flourished her fan with a truly Parisian air. 

“ I am quite interested,” he said, “ in removing all itf 
effects from your last dance ; you are not engaged for an. 
other, I hope.” 

“ No.” The voice of Grace faltered slightly. 

“ Will you permit me to waltz with you ? Your aunt 
has given me courage to ask you.” 

Grace bowed, and the Marquis left her to give the neces- 
sary directions. Nature was struggling with art in the 
mind of Grace, and as Monsieur de Villeneuve returned 
to her side, the color went and came in her cheek, and her 
eyes fell beneath his, which had somewhat of triumph in 
their glance. He touched her hand ; it trembled ; but 
her aunt whispered in her ear, and she rose and took a 
step forward. His arm was around her ; one hand clasped 
hers, the other was pressed to her throbbing heart. Let 
not Grace sink too low in the opinion of the fashionable 
reader, when we record that for one moment Nature tri- 
umphed, and that, withdrawing from the half embrace, she 
turned from him. At her other side stood a tall and manly 
form in a military undress ; she raised her eyes to his face 
and they rested on the calm, grave features of Captain 
Stuart. A start of surprise, an exclamation, another hur- 
ried glance, and the hand of Grace was clasped in that of 
her cousin Marion. Affectionate greetings, animated in- 
quiries and explanations followed. Mrs. Elliot and Grace 
would have gone at once to Isabel, who had remained with 
Mrs. Stuart, pleading that she was too much fatigued to 
dress for a ball-room, but the Marquis arrested their steps. 
“ I flattered myself — ” he began. 


106 


TWC LIVES : OR, 


Grace glanced at Captain Stuart, and interrupted him, 
saying, “ Aunt, if Captain Stuart will show you the way, 
I will get Marion to wait for me till I have fulfilled my 
engagement with Monsieur de Villeneuve, and after that I 
will join you.” 

No objection was made to this proposal, and Grace, whc 
had lost all other fear in that of Walter Stuart’s disap- 
proval, only waited till he had withdrawn, to resume the 
position from which she had so lately extricated herself, 
and was soon moving in the graceful circles of the waltz. 
It was a favorite dance with her, and one which she often 
practised with Isabel for her partner. She had now in the 
Marquis de Villeneuve one far more capable of sustaining 
and guiding her in its dizzying mazes. Slowly, with a 
gentle, tranquil grace, they commenced, but each time they 
completed the circuit of the room, the music grew quicker, 
and faster and faster whirled the flying pair. At length 
they paused, and Grace, exhausted, dizzy, bewildered, 
would have sunk to the floor, had not the Marquis support- 
ed her, and borne rather than led her to a sofa. 

“ Dear Grace, I never saw you waltz so well !” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Elliot’s voice at her side. She looked up, 
and met what seemed to her conscious heart a reproving 
glance from her aunt’s attendant, Captain Stuart. Involun- 
tarily she covered her face with her hand, and sank back 
upon the cushions which Monsieur de Villeneuve had with 
officious gallantry arranged for her. 

Poor Grace ! she was beginning to feel some of the dif- 
ficulties of his course, who adopts as a guiding star the 
varying opinions of men rather than the unchanging and 
eternal principles of right, 




TO SEEM AND TO BE. 107 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ As on the finger of a throndd Queen, 

The basest jewel will be well esteem’d ; 

So are those errors that in thee are seen 

To truths translated, and for true things deem’d.” 

Shakspeare’s Sonnets. 

To tne very young, and to those who, like Grace Elliot, 
possess more imagination and feeling than reason and re- 
flection, physical courage, that principle whereby man 
may cope with danger, and face death with unshrinking 
nerve, awakens perhaps higher admiration than all other 
qualities combined ; and he who makes it his profession to 
stand between a nation and its foes, is regarded as the lofti- 
est of human beings. Such, rather than the childish love 
of pomp and show to which it has been attributed, is proba- 
bly the source of woman’s partiality for the military pro. 
fession ; and such was the origin of that power which 
Captain Stuart had early acquired, and had never wholly 
ceased to exercise over the-mind of Grace Elliot. Of the 
deeper principles of his nature, his stern integrity, his 
warm affections, his power of generous devotion to others, 
she thought little ; but to the resolute will, the iron nerve, 
which were as servants obeying the direction of these prin- 
ciples, — to these she did homage. He was a leader and 
commander of- men ; and to have power over him, to com- 
mand him, — this were a proud pre-eminence indeed, and 
one of which she had sometimes dreamed, though scarcely 
with hope. No other man had ever awakened so much of 


108 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


genuine emotion in her heart. Mr. Falconer had influ- 
enced her solely through her vanity. She could not sym- 
pathize with a nature so spiritual as his ; but his popularity 
made her desire his admiration, and his coldness had 
piqued that desire into intenser activity. The Marquis de 
Villeneuve had never awakened even her admiration. His 
sole attraction was his title and his fashion. He was the 
Marquis, the only one in America. At Saratoga he was 
the observed of all observers, and Grace was willing, by 
receiving his attentions, to share his reign. She had 
thought of him, liowever, but as a flutterer of the hour, till 
Mrs. Elliot’s insinuations had excited a wish for more de- 
cided tokens of her power. The arrival of Captain Stuart 
had produced a conjunction of malignant aspect to her for- 
tunes. With woman’s intuition she felt and knew, that 
what would attract the fashionable Marquis would repel 
the true-hearted soldier ; and, without any process of rea- 
soning, she was convinced that she must choose between 
the triumphs of vanity and the gratification of a truer and 
purer sentiment. Truer and purer, but was it more power- 
ful ? could she who had hitherto made her judgment wait 
on that of others, at once reverse the world’s decisions, and 
place the soldier, distinguished only by his own high quali- 
ties, above the titled exquisite ? It was a question she did 
not ask herself, — and which, for us, time only can answer. 

Grace rose early the morning after the ball, and accom- 
panied Mrs. Stuart and Isabel to the spring, while her aunt 
was still sleeping. There was a gravity in Captain 
Stuart’s voice when he spoke to her, a coldness in his eyes 
when they met hers, which chilled and saddened the heart 
of Grace. She had had waking dreams of their meeting, 
and now this was so unlike them. Destitute as she was of 
self-reliance, his disapprobation, whose opinion she could 
have set against the world’s, humbled her, and her manner 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


109 


became subdued, sad, and touchingly gentle. No refine- 
ment of art could have dictated so certain|a mode of recov- 
ering her influence over him. He fel&his reserve, his 
coldness, vanishing ; he longed to sooth, ^o encourage, to 
guide her. “ It is her aunt who is to blame ; she is so 
gentle, so easily led,” he began to say to himself. He 
would have approached her with some expression of inter- 
est, but as he was about to do so, by one of those uncon- 
scious impulses which seem to us, in after moments, inspi- 
rations, his eyes were turned towards his mother, and hers 
were fixed upon him with an expression so entreating — 
they seemed to speak so plainly “ For my sake, if not for 
your own, beware !” that they irresistibly influenced him, 
and for the time, at least, changed his purpose. That look 
had established a sort of half-confidence between the mo- 
ther and s6n ; the frank soldier soon rendered that con- 
fidence complete. 

“ Mother,” he said, entering Mrs. Stuart’s room soon 
after breakfast, “ I would have no secrets from you, no 
misunderstandings between us. If I read your looks aright 
this morning, you were very earnestly desirous to prevent 
my offering any particular attention to Miss Elliot ; will 
you not give me your reason for this ?” 

Mrs. Stuart looked down in thoughtful silence for a mo- 
ment. When she spoke, it was to say, “ Before I answer 
your question, Walter, I should like to know with what 
feelings you regard Miss Elliot.” 

“ With the tenderest interest, mother ; an interest which 
wants only confidence in her principles to become the most 
trusting love.” 

“ I would rather you felt thus towards her cousin.” 

“ And why would you rather ? I admire and esteem 
Miss Douglass ; I shall always value her as a friend, but I 
see no reason why she should be preferred to Miss Elliot.” 

10 


110 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


“Walter,” said Mrs. Stuart, “do you think Isabe. 
Douglass could have been induced to make the exhibition 
of herself, which I learned from Marion’s thoughtless 
raillery this morning you had been so much grieved to see 
in Grace Elliot last evening?” 

Captain Stuart’s face flushed. He would gladly have 
forgotten that exhibition, but he answered frankly, “No, I 
do not think she could ; but I believe, I hope, that Grace 
Elliot takes as little pleasure in such an exhibition as her 
cousin could. It is her aunt I blame for it. The very 
qualities which make up the sum of woman’s attractiveness 
in my eyes, her truly feminine gentleness, her yielding 
softness, her loving nature, place Grace so entirely under 
the influence of her friends. The man she loved, might, 
in mv opinion, make her what he would.” 

“ A poor compliment to her, Walter, whatever you may 
think of it, since that would prove that she had no steadfast 
principle abiding in her own heart. How could a man of 
sense trust his happiness with such a woman ! He could 
not be forever beside her, and when he was absent, what 
security would he have for the conduct on which his re- 
spectability as well as his peace would so largely depend ?” 

“ What security ? He would have the love, which, if 
I mistake not, would stamp his wishes as a law upon her 
heart.” 

Mrs. Stuart said nothing, but she shook her head gravely. 
Captain Stuart rose and walked several times slowly across 
the room, then seating himself again beside his mother, he 
said, “ Mother, it would have been wiser, had I confided 
my feelings to you when first they arose, but I was un- 
willing, even to myself, to give those feelings the name of 
love ; she was such a child, yet to me a type of all that 
is loveliest in woman. Accustomed for years to associa- 
tion with my own sex only, there seemed about her a spirit* 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


Ill 


uality, a purity, which I could have worshipped ; and yet 
a timidity, a clinging tenderness, a sensitive delicacy, 
which appealed constantly to man’s strength and courage 
to shield her from every approach of harm. Such had 
been my dreams of woman ; a being to be cherished and 
guarded with the tenderness which we give to the feeble 
and the helpless, yet one by sympathy with whom oui 
higher natures should be cultivated, till purified and spirit- 
ualized we should rise, through her, to the communion of 
angels. Every day my interest in Grace became greater. 
Already I trembled for the influence which Mrs. Elliot 
would exert over her. How gladly would I have snatched 
her from that influence ! but she was a child and an heir- 
ess ; it was not to be thought of, and I left her. I am not 
one to indulge in day-dreams, and in leaving Grace Elliot 
I resolutely relinquished every hope, and silenced every 
thought which could connect me with her in the future. 
Still she remained the fairest embodiment of my ideal of 
woman, and when I found myself about to return, and 
learned that she was still unmarried, still disengaged, I set 
free my imprisoned thoughts and hopes, and they flew to 
her. I cannot describe to you with what anxiety I antici- 
pated our meeting. I believed that I should see in a moment 
whether the bright gem of her soul had been dimmed, its 
purity sullied, by earthly shadow. I longed, yet dreaded, 
to hear your opinion of her • drank in eagerly every word 
which referred to her, and yet would not have asked a 
question for worlds. Will you believe that I could be so 
blind as not to recognise in such feelings — love. I said to 
myself, if she be unchanged, I shall love her. Alas ! I 
loved already, and the moment that showed her to me in 
the arms — . Oh, mother ! what do they deserve, who per- 
vert and mislead an angel ?” 

Never had Mrs. Stuart seen her calm, self-controlled son 


112 


TWO LIVES . OR, 


so moved. She had no hope, no consolation to offer, and 
she was silent, but she laid her hand tenderly in his, that 
he might be. reminded that love, warm, true and pure, was 
still his. He pressed her hand, but, almost instantly re- 
linquishing it, said, “ How beautiful she was this morning 
in her humility and gentleness — looking as if she were 
ready to cast herself on the hearts of her friends, and plead 
for forgiveness, even before she was accused. And of 
what can she be accused ? Only, as far as I have yet 
seen and heard, of too much pliability of nature, too much 
readiness to believe that those she loves can do no wrong. 
Have you any thing else to reproach her with ?” and the 
lover, inconsistent as lovers ever are, turned with almost 
an angry expression to his mother, forgetful apparently of 
all which had caused his coldness and gravity in the morn- 
ing. 

Mrs. Stuart met his eyes with a look so gentle, so sym 
pathizing, that in an instant he exclaimed, “ Pardon me, 
my mother ! I am ashamed that any thing should move me 
thus ; but I will be calm — only tell me frankly whatever 
you have seen to condemn in her.” 

W alter was unwilling to associate the name he had so 
long loved with such a request. 

“I will, Walter,” said Mrs. Stuart, “ though my frank- 
ness must give you pain — and yet I have nothing to say 
of Grace Elliot, which in the opinion of the world would 
be accounted matter of blame. She is a creature to be ad- 
mired, to be loved, but — ah, Walter ! — not trusted.” 

“ And wherefore ?” 

“ Because she is emphatically, one who ‘ loves the praise 
of man more than the praise of God because though ca- 
pable of strong affections, the desire to please, to win the 
heartless plaudits of the crowd, to see herself the idol of 
he hour, would make her sin even against these. Vanity 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


113 


is her ruling passion ; her aim, to please, not the heart- 
searching God, but man, who sees only the outward act. 
In a word, her whole life is an effort, not to be, but to 

SEEM.” 

“ Then is her whole life a lie !” 

Mrs. Stuart was silent. 

Captain Stuart rose from his chair and walked with 
folded arms to the window, at which he stood long, with 
his face averted from his mother. Suddenly he turned 
around, left the room quickly, and rushed with rapid steps 
down stairs. Mrs. Stuart approached the window, and 
looked to see what had thus aroused him. Three gayly 
caparisoned horses stood on the turf beneath. On one of 
them Grace Elliot was already seated. Her companions, 
Marion Elliot and the Marquis de Villeneuve, were not yet 
mounted, and the liveried servant of the latter still held 
the reins of her horse, which moved uneasily from side to 
side, as if impatient of control. Marion was near her, but, 
as usual, heedless of all, save his own gay thoughts and 
words, when Walter Stuart approached and said. to her, 
“ Your horse seems too unquiet for a lady’s management, 
Miss Elliot, — are you acquainted with him ?” 

“ The Marquis de Villeneuve is, and he assures me he 
is perfectly safe.” 

The words had scarcely left the lips of Grace, before 
she repented their cold, scant courtesy, which seemed to 
a-eject his first expression of interest. He could not know 
that it was received thus because it was the first. She 
would have added something more gracious, but, with a 
silent bow, he had already turned away. He paused, how- 
ever, beside Marion to say to him, “ I do not like the horse 
Miss Elliot rides, Marion. Be watchful of his movements, 
and advise her to keep a tight rein.” 

The party moved off, and Captain Stuart watched them 
10 * 


114 


TWO LIVES ; OR, 


from the piazza till they were out of sight, when he left 
the house on foot, and by a different road from that which 
they had taken. Striding on with that rapid motion in 
which we sometimes seek relief from an excited mind, he 
had advanced nearly, if not quite, two miles, when the 
quick striking of a horse’s hoofs upon a hard surface ar- 
rested his attention. The sounds seemed approaching him, 
yet there was no object in sight. A wood on his right 
hand separated him from another road which intersected 
the one he was pursuing, at an acute angle, about fifty 
yards in advance of the spot on which he now stood. Hur- 
rying to this spot, he had scarcely braced himself to meet 
the shock he foresaw, when the white horse on which Grace 
had ridden came rushing on. The path on which he came 
was narrow, the woods on either side close, and sheering 
slightly to one side, he rose high in the air, to overleap 
the barrier which Captain Stuart presented to his progress ; 
but the reins were in his powerful hand, and though the 
excited animal reared and plunged furiously, to the immi- 
nent peril of his life and limbs, he would not loose his hold, 
till he had wound his other arm around the passive Grace, 
and lifted her from the saddle. The horse sped on, and 
she lay conscious, yet helpless, pale and trembling in his 
arms, while he poured out his thanks to Heaven for her 
safety, and almost in the same breath conjured her to tell 
him that she was unhurt. For many minutes, Grace could 
not utter a word, she could only feel that in those arms she 
was safe, and so she lay with closed eyes, and colorless 
cheeks, only the light, scarce perceptible breath, and a 
quick shiver, which now and then passed over her form, 
marking that she was in life. Captain Stuart had never 
before seen the influence of terror on a delicate woman, 
and the appearance of Grace inspired him with the wildest 
apprehensions. He became every moment more anxious. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


115 


“ This terror will kill her/’ he exclaimed. “ You are 
safe now, Miss Elliot. She does not hear me. What can 
I do for her ? — Speak to me, Grace — dear Grace — oh how 
dear and with tenderness excited to an uncontrollable 
degree by his alarm, he drew her closer to his bosom, and 
bending lower and still lower, touched her forehead with 
his lips. Slight as was the touch its effect was electrical ; 
the blood rushed wildly to the very temples of Grace, and 
crimsoned even the tips of her slender fingers ; her eye- 
lids trembled as if about to unclose, and a faint smile rose 
to her lip. 

“ Grace, you hear me, and you do not repulse me !” 
cried Walter Stuart, no longer master of himself. Grace 
answered not, but she nestled closer to his side, and hid 
her face on his shoulder. At that instant, voices were 
heard approaching, and starting from her attitude of repose, 
Grace withdrew from the arm that had hitherto supported 
her. The voices were those of a neighboring farmer and 
Marion Elliot. 

When Grace Elliot’s horse, terrified by the sudden shouts 
of some boys at play in a neighboring field, dashed off, the 
Marquis de Villeneuve put spurs to his own and followed, 
— a proceeding which only increased her danger, as her 
horse was urged to fiercer efforts to outstrip his pursuer. 
Fortunately, this did not last long. The Marquis was a 
timid rider and soon found himself left behind in the race. 
Compelled to pause, he looked around for Marion, and saw 
him urging his horse to his utmost speed on another road. 
In moments such as this the supremacy of nature asserts 
itself, and the man of superior powers becomes the leader. 

The Marquis de Villeneuve followed Marion Elliot un- 
questioningly, blindly, not knowing that this road had been 
chosen by him because, marking with the observant eye 
of a military man the country over which he passed, he 


116 


TWO LIVES : OR. 


saw that it must intersect that down which Grace had been 
borne with such frantic haste. Before reaching the point 
of intersection, Marion, who had far outridden the Marquis, 
met the farmer we have named. From him he learned 
that a white horse bearing a lady’s saddle had lately passed 
him. Guided by the farmer, he turned in the direction 
from which the horse had come, and was soon standing 
beside Grace and Walter Stuart. 

“ My dear Grace !” he exclaimed, throwing himself 
from his saddle as he came near, “ God be thanked that I 
see you again alive ! — and unhurt, I hope V 9 

“ I believe so,” said Grace, extending her hand to him 
with a faint smile, “ but I can think of nothing yet except 
my terror, and my deliverance.” 

“ Deliverance indeed ! — and what good angel brought 
you here, Walter V 9 

“ My good angel. Oh, Marion ! if he had not come V* 
Grace paused, overcome by her emotions. She trembled 
violently, and covering her face with her hands, burst into 
tears. 

“Marion, cannot you arrange with your guide some 
plan for taking your cousin home ? Perhaps he has a 
carriage of some sort ; see, Marion.” 

Even while speaking to Marion, Walter Stuart had 
passed his arm again around the weeping and trembling 
Grace, and when her cousin returned to the farmer, who 
had remained on his horse at some distance from the party, 
he soothed her with the tenderest words and gentlest ac- 
cents that love could suggest. 

“ Let me weep,” cried Grace, “ it does me good.” 

“ Then weep here, beloved.” 

He drew her gently to him, and laid her head tenderly 
upon his shoulder, and she wept there, soft, balmy, happy 
tears, such as a trusting child sheds on a mother’s bosom. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


117 


Has life in reserve for either, another hour of such deep# 
pure, untroubled joy ? 

“ Walter,” exclaimed Marion, returning to them after 
having dispatched the farmer for his wagon, “ you are a 
generous fellow, never to remind us that you cautioned us 
against that horse.” 

As he spoke, Marion clasped the hand which hung at 
Captain Stuart’s side. He shrank from the clasp and 
turned pale, though no sound escaped his lips. 

“You are hurt,” cried Grace, attempting to withdraw 
herself. 

“ Rest quietly, dearest,” and he held her clasped in the 
other arm ; “ you tremble still — you cannot support your- 
self, and I am not much hurt, though I cannot stand such 
a bear-like grasp as Marion’s.” 

The wagon -arrived, and they were soon at the Hotel, to 
the great relief of the Marquis de Villeneuve, who, after 
wandering hither and thither, bewildered by crossing roads 
and confused tracks, had just returned mortified and de- 
sponding. Breaking away in the midst of his congratula- 
tions and compliments, Walter Stuart sought the master 
of the house. “ Is there a physician or surgeon here ?” 
he asked. 

“Yes, sir; quite a celebrated surgeon, from somewhere 
south.” 

“ Ask him to come to Captain Stuart’s room — number 
thirty-eight. Say nothing to any one else about it ; but 
when Lieutenant Elliot comes in, send him to me.” 

“What must be done with this, Doctor,” asked Walter 
Stuart as he raised his injured arm, from which he had 
already ripped the coat sleeve, and thrown back the shirt, 
The surgeon felt it ; moved it. “ Set it, to be sure, sir ; 
your arm is broken. How was it done ?” 

“ By the kick of a horse.” 


118 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


The arm was set before any one, except Lieutenant 
Elliot and the surgeon, were aware of the injury. It was 
several days before Walter Stuart could exchange his robe 
de chambre for a coat. During those days he did not ap- 
pear in the public rooms. When he was next seen there, 
Grace Elliot leaned upon his arm, his betrothed ; and none 
who saw the proud light in his eye could suppose that one 
tone of his mother’s warning voice lingered in his heart, 
making discord with the glad music of his love. Urged 
on by the force of circumstances, he had pledged his faith 
to Grace, and won from her the acknowledgment of re- 
ciprocal tenderness more hastily than his unimpassioned 
reason would have counselled, but he was not one to turn 
from the joyous and fair-seeming present, to look with 
regret upon the past, or with timid apprehension on the 
future. 

“ She is your daughter now, dear mother, to be guided 
and counselled , as well as loved, for my sake,” he had said, 
in announcing his engagement to his mother. If this had 
been intended as an allusion to their late conversation, it 
was the only allusion ever made by him. And Mrs. Stuart 
found it easy to love and to guide one, whose manners 
towards her were marked by the most winning gentleness 
an d deference, and who seemed to desire to learn Walter’s 
wishes and tastes, only that she might mould herself upon 
them. 

To Mrs. Elliot, Grace had been too timid to communi- 
cate her engagement. She had delegated the task to 
Walter, with an almost instinctive consciousness that he 
would not be welcomed as the bearer of good tidings. 
To Isabel, on the contrary, she flew herself, and in all the 
glow of her first glad triumph, amidst tears, and smiles, 
and blushes, told her joy. Every other emotion in Isabel 
was lost in surprise. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


119 


“You are engaged to Captain Stuart !” she exclaimed ; 

“ how can that be ? What has become of ” She 

hesitated, and Grace exclaimed, “ Of the Marquis ? Oh, 
poor Marquis ! You never could have believed that I cared 
any thing for him...” 

“ No ; but there was another, a very different person, 
Grace, to whom I thought — you said you were attached.” 

“You mean Mr. Falconer,” said Grace, blushing yet 
more deeply, and turning her face away from Isabel’s in- 
tense gaze. “ You know I always thought he looked like 
Captain Stuart, and I am convinced now that that was the 
only cause of my — my interest in him. I never loved 
him, Isabel,” and she threw her arms around Isabel’s 
neck and hid her face on her shoulder. “ I never loved 
any one but Walter Stuart, and to think that he should 
love me, Isabel ! that he should have loved me, as he says 
he has done, from the first hour he saw me ! Oh, dear Is- 
abel ! I am too — too happy ; do you not rejoice with me ?” 

She raised her head and looked into Isabel’s eyes with 
such a beaming countenance, such assurance of sympathy, 
that it was irresistible ; it overcame even the sharp, arrowy 
thought, which had darted into Isabel’s mind — “ The hap- 
piness of my life, and, perhaps, of his, has been sacrificed 
to a fancy it thawed away the coldness, which, spite of 
all her efforts, had been gathering around her heart, and 
clasping her cousin in her arms, she kissed her with all 
the tenderness of former years, as she exclaimed, “I do 
indeed rejoice with you, my dear Grace. God grant that 
your happiness may never be less than at this moment.’" 


120 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


CHAPTER X. 

“ There are hopes, 

Promising well, and love-touch’d dreams for some, 

And passions, many a wild one, and fair schemes 
For gold and pleasure.” 

“ What thrice-mock’d fools are we !” 

Willis 

“ Thou shalt not covet,” saith the law of Wisdom and 
of Love, and foolish man, forgetful or disdainful of the 
heavenly precept, desires nothing so earnestly as the unat- 
tainable. Let another appropriate that on which he has 
looked with indifference, and it becomes at once valuable 
in his eyes. Thus was it with the Marquis de Villeneuve. 
Grace Elliot had been to him only a pretty girl, who might 
assist him in getting rid of some of the tediousness of 
time, but the rumor that she had been won by another, 
awakened a new feeling within him ; she was now a beau- 
tiful heiress, whose conquest would have added to his eclat, 
even in Paris, and whose wealth would have enabled him 
to live there en Prince. But even these motives for 
desiring her favor were weak, compared with that which 
his vanity, stimulated by the appearance of rivalry and 
defeat, supplied. This influence was increased by many 
a silly jest from his companions at Saratoga ; perhaps, by 
many a malicious taunt from those who had found them- 
selves neglected for Grace. Mrs. Smith’s laugh became 
as unpleasant to the Marquis as it had lately been to 
Mrs. Elliot. She was one of those who consider to be 
severe and to be witty as synonymous terms, and who 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


121 


thin* any impertinence excusable, if it only wear the guise 
of a jest. 

“ Give that to Monsieur de Villeneuve, my dear,” said 
she one day to a child, who was playing with a willow 
spray. 

Monsieur de Villeneuve heard her, and asked, “ And 
for what do you send me a rod, Mrs. Smith ? What have 
I done ?” 

“Do you not see it is willow. Monsieur?” she inquired, 
with mock earnestness of tone. 

“ Willow, it is very pretty,” said the Marquis, examining 
the leaves. 

“ Yes ; I thought you would want a piece.” 

“ You are very good, madame, to think of my wants, 
but I have not made any collection of the plants of this 
country.” 

“ But you told me the other day, you were very careful 
to conform to the customs of every land you visited. Per- 
haps, however, you are not aware that it is a custom in 
America for rejected or forsaken swains to wear a wreath 
of willow around the hat.” 

The Marquis colored, bit his lip with anger, and stam- 
mered out confusedly, “I do 'not know, madame, what I 
have to do with such a custom.” 

“ What customs are you and Mrs. Smith discussing, 
Monsieur de Villeneuve ?” asked a silvery voice at his 
side. He turned, and met the smiling, pleasant face of 
Mrs. Elliot. While he hesitated, Mrs. Smith replied, “ I 
have been telling the Marquis that the willow is the ap- 
propriate badge of discarded or forsaken lovers. Was I 
not right, Mrs. Elliot ?” 

“ I really cannot tell, Mrs. Smith,” said Mrs. Elliot, 
coldly ; “ having never had occasion to wear their badge 
myself, and as there is little danger that the Marquis de 

11 


122 


two lives Tor. 


Villeneuve will ever require it, the subject can scarcely 
interest him. Have you seen Lieutenant Elliot lately, 
monsieur ? Ah ! there he is with Miss Elton.” 

“ Shall I speak to him for you ?” 

“ I thank you ; he was to walk with me, but as he seems 
more pleasantly engaged — ” 

“ Permit me to supply his place.” 

The petition was graciously accepted, and an hour after 
Mrs. Elliot might have been seen slowly approaching the 
house, leaning on the arm of the Marquis de Villeneuve, 
with whom she was conversing in low tones and with great 
apparent interest. As they were parting, the Marquis de- 
tained her to say, “ Give me the least hope of success, and 
I will spare nothing of care to win her.” 

“ I have told you my belief, I can only add the proverb 
I quoted to you once before, ‘ Faint heart never won fair 
lady.’ ” 

“ And I will tell you now, as I told you then, I will be 
faint heart no more.” 

That afternoon the Marquis de Villeneuve left Saratoga, 
and his departure seemed the signal for that of many others. 
Mrs. Elliot proposed a visit to Niagara, and her party readily 
consented to the proposal. 

If ever the mere sense of existence can give delight, it 
is in breathing the elastic air and being fanned by the cool 
breezes of September, in the latitude of New York. Under 
such influences, the pale cheek of the- invalid is tinged 
with the hue of health ; the eyes dim with sorrow, or weary 
with watching, grow bright again ; the heavy heart throws 
off for a time its burden, and feels the lost link of harmony 
between itself and the joyous earth and the bright heavens 
restored. Nor is it altogether a sensual delight to which 
this bright and balmy air ministers. Something of reli- 
gious sentiment is often awakened in the unclogged and 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


123 


joyous spirit, while the heart remains uncontrolled by re- 
ligious principle, — a vague, inefficient, and unenduring, 
yet elevating sentiment, during whose brief reign love be- 
comes less selfish and earthly joy calmer and deeper. 
Elevated by these influences, for a time, to a level with 
the nobler and purer spirit of her lover, Grace Elliot became 
every hour dearer to him. If such was the effect on her, 
of seeing the smiling face of Nature, what was it on Isabel, 
whose reverent heart had been accustomed “ to rise from 
Nature up to Nature’s God ?” She had felt stifled, crushed, 
in the crowds of Saratoga. In 'its activity and gayety her 
outer life had participated, but her mirth had been a vain 
show in which her spirit shared not. Her inner life had 
seemed paralyzed, but now, 

“ she felt in nature’s broad, 

Full heart, her own was free,” 

and it rose up serenely, even joyously, to the Divine source 
of life, and love, and beauty. She began to understand 
how much of enjoyment was still left to her. Self-accu- 
sing tears often dimmed her eyes, as she remembered how 
the disappointment of one ardent affection, one earnest 
desire had made her ready to cast from her as a valueless 
boon, the life in which so much of God was still to be 
found. The emotions which Niagara awakened, we at- 
tempt not to depict — as well attempt to describe Niagara 
itself. 

October had already cast its many-colored robe over the 
woods and fields, when our party found themselves nearing 
the city. Its busy hum fell on their ears with varying 
effect. To Isabel it seemed a discordant note, spoiling the 
rich, heavenly harmony of nature ; to Mrs. Stuart it was 
a call to the homely duties, in which dwell a beauty and a 
charm, perceived only by the earnest spirit; to Captain 


124 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


Stuart a trumpet tone, bidding him, after a period of re* 
pose, buckle on his armor, and stand ready for combat ; 
to Mrs. Elliot, and Grace, and Marion it was a light strain, 
inviting them to scenes of festivity and mirth. It is won- 
derful how much our characters are under the influence 
of the objects surrounding us. There are some, and Grace 
Elliot was of the number, who seem but the reflex image 
of those objects. Appreciating the lofty nature of Captain 
Stuart, she had welcomed her late emotions as raising her 
to his level, and more than once, as her throbbing heart 
and glistening eyes responded to his expressions of deep, 
and high, and holy thought, she had repeated to herself, 
with the conviction that she might appropriate the experi- 
ence as her own, 

“ And like the stain’d web in the sun, 

Grow pure, by being purely shone upon.” 

Once more in New York, and all this was as a dream, 
shadowy, evanescent. She honored and loved him still, 
but it was as the man whom men honored and obeyed, and 
whose homage would elevate her in the esteem of others. 
Her love was no longer a holy mystery, to be guarded from 
cold eyes ; it was a jewelled crown to be worn as an orna- 
ment to her own beauty, and a badge of her power. Fa- 
tigued as she was on’ the evening of her arrival, she did 
not sleep till she had examined the cards left during their 
absence, and we fear Walter Stuart would have been little 
pleased, could he have seen the sparkle of her eyes as they 
rested on the name of the Marquis de Villeneuve. He did 
not see it, for he had attended his mother home, but the 
next morning he presented himself at Mr. Elliot’s before 
the family had assembled for breakfast. 

“ Miss Elliot is in the breakfast-room, sir,” said the 
servant who admitted him, and proceeding thither, he en* 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


125 


tered unannounced. The morning was cold, and a fire 
had been kindled in this room, which was probably the at- 
traction to Grace for resorting to it so early. She was 
seated on an ottoman, which she had drawn so near the 
fire as to permit her to rest her feet on the fender, while 
the morning paper served to screen her face from the heat. 
Her eyes were riveted upon its pages, and her thoughts 
must have been as intently engaged, for she heeded neither 
the opening of the door, nor the entrance of Captain Stuart. 
He stood for several seconds near her, gazing with tender- 
ness, shadowed with somewhat of sadness, upon the beauti- 
ful head with its shower of golden ringlets, and the face 
so young, so tender and pure in its childlike beauty. Sud- 
denly a flash of joy lit up the soft, dovelike eyes, and a 
smile parted the lovely lips. He bent down, and drawing 
her to his bosom, had touched those lips with his, before 
she knew of his presence. Why was it that in that mo- 
ment of pleased surprise, even as she turned to hide her 
glad smile upon his shoulder, she crumpled with a nervous 
hand the paper she was reading, and threw it from her ? 
Walter Stuart scarce observed that movement at the time, 
though he may have remembered it afterwards. 

“ To meet you thus alone, is a piece of good fortune I 
scarcely expected, Grace, though I wished it earnestly, for 
I am come to tell you what I would rather tell, and you, I 
think, would rather hear, without witnesses : nay, do not 
look so frightened, it is nothing very terrible, only that 
I must leave you sooner than I expected — to-day.” 

“ To-day !” 

Grace had sought to hide her smiles from him, but her 
already moistened eyes and quivering lips were turned to 
him without a thought. “ To-day ; leave me to-day !” 
she repeated, while he continued to gaze upon her with ad- 
miring tenderness. 


11 * 


126 


TWO LIVES . OR, 


“ Yes, dearest, but I hope to return for a few days at 
xeast, before my leave of absence expires, even if I cannot 
get it prolonged ; I wrote to Colonel Lee, last night, that 
if he could spare me/ 1 would apply for an extension of it, 
and if I can help it, I will not, after this, leave my Grace 
at all, but remain with her till I am privileged to take her 
with me.” 

“ But now, why do you leave me now, when you told 
me only yesterday that you had still three weeks of 
liberty ?” 

She drew closer to him as she spoke, and looked up so 
pleadingly in his face, that instead of answering her ques- 
tion, he said, while he kissed away the tears that hung up- 
on her lashes, “ Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I would 
we could part thus every day.” 

“ Cruel Walter !” she exclaimed, starting from his arms, 
“ you are only trying me. How could you do so ?” 

“ You do not know me, Grace, or you would feel that to 
be impossible ; I told you truly, I must leave you this after- 
noon. On my arrival last night, I received a letter from a 
brother officer who has got into a difficulty, from which he 
needs the aid of a friend to extricate him. My going may 
save life, and I must not hesitate. I hope, as I told you, 
to be able to return at least for a few days, before my leave 
of absence has expired.” 

“ Oh ! you will get your leave extended, will you not ?” 

“ If I can with propriety. I would gladly be ever with 
my Grace.” 

“ And yet you wished just now that you could part from 
me every day.” 

“ One of love’s inconsistencies, dearest ; you know little 
of love if you do not understand it.” 

They were interrupted by the entrance of other mem- 
bers of the family, who were soon followed by the servants, 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


127 


with breakfast. To Marion Elliot, Captain Stuart entered 
in'o a more detailed relation of the circumstances which 
compelled his departure. Two of his brother officers, 
hot-headed, though worthy men, had quarrelled ; a duel, it 
was feared, would be the result ; he had great influence 
with both parties, and hoped to be able to act as a mediator 
between them, if he could see them in time. 

“You expect a renewal of your leave?” said Mahon, 
inquiringly. 

“ I have written to Lee, to know if he can spare me. If 
he can, I shall apply for it, and request that the answer 
may be forwarded here. I empower you to open any 
communication that may arrive from the Department for 
me ; so you will all know the result of my application, 
probably before I do.” 

He said aZZ, but his eyes were turned on Grace. 

“ Where is the morning’s paper ?” asked Mrs. Elliot, 
of a servant. It was found, and by her direction handed 
to Marion, that he might see if there was any thing worth 
reading in it. 

“Here is a speech of Daniel Webster’s, shall I read 
that ?” 

“ If you do, pray let it be to yourself.” 

“Well, here are what the editor calls ‘pungent and 
sparkling remarks of Henry Clay,’ shall I give you 
those ?” 

“ Pray hand me the paper, Marion, if you cannot cater 
better for a lady’s taste.” 

“ Oh ! I beg your pardon, here are the marriages and 
deaths ; marriages, not a name I know among them ; 
deaths, — Walter,” he exclaimed, with sudden seriousness, 
“our old friend, Mr. Falconer, is dead.” 

“ Mr. Falconer !” exclaimed Mrs. Elliot and Grace ; 
but from Isabel no sound proceeded, and as Walter Stuart, 


128 


TWC LIVES : OR, 


who sat opposite to her, raised his eyes to address Marion 
he saw that every particle of color had faded from her face, 
leaving her very lips of an ashy paleness, while her hands 
were clenched upon the table before her, and her eyes 
were fastened with a wild stare upon Marion. 

“Not Hubert Falconer/’ he hastened to say, “whom 
you know, but an uncle of his, a man seventy years old.” 

There was a quick, gasping sound from Isabel ; she 
stretched out her hand towards the paper ; but before she 
touched it — before any one but Walter Stuart had per- 
ceived the movement, she fell forward, with her face upon 
the table. 

For a few minutes all was confusion and alarm. Marion 
lifted her in his arms and laid her upon a couch, where 
Mrs. Elliot deluged her with Cologne water, while Grace 
kissed her and wept over her by turns, scarcely hearing 
Walter Stuart’s assurances that there was no danger — that 
she would soon be well again. Very soon, in truth, a faint 
tinge of color rose to her cheeks, and her eyelids quivered 
as if about to unclose ; the next instant she opened her 
eyes suddenly, and turned them with a wild, sad expression 
upon those around her. They fell upon the newspaper 
which Marion had converted into a fan for her. A rapid 
change passed over her countenance, a sudden smile irra- 
diating her features like a sunbeam, and murmuring, “ It 
was so warm ; but I am better now,” she attempted to rise. 
Mrs. Elliot insisted, however, that she should remain for 
the present where she was, and too languid to contend, she 
lay down again. Marion drew his chair beside her couch, 
and promised to reward her for her submission, by reading 
all the really feminine items from his paper. A most ex- 
traordinary jumble of milliners’ advertisements, elope- 
ments, fashionable on dits , and tragical occurrences fol- 
lowed, for most of which i; would have been useless to 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


129 


search any paper extant. At length he exclaimed, “ Here 
is something to interest you, ladies. * Private theatricals—* 
It is rumored that a certain distinguished foreigner, who 
occupies a suite of apartments in one of our principal ho- 
tels, is about to introduce a new diversion into our fashion- 
able circles. Workmen are said to be busily engaged in 
removing the partition between two of his rooms, and ma- 
king such temporary arrangements as will convert them 
into a theatre, where a small but select company may wit. 
ness the histrionic efforts of this gentleman, and those whom 
he may induce to aid him. More than one fair lady, if 
fame may. be trusted, has already consented to tread the 
stage with him ; but we are told that the bright, particular 
star, to whom these are but humble satellites, has yet to 
appear. 7 — What can it mean ?” questioned Marion ; “ who 
is this distinguished foreigner ? Can it be the Marquis de 
Villeneuve ?” At that moment he caught Mrs. Elliot’s 
meaning smile, and continued, “ I believe in my soul it is 
the Marquis, and that my mother could tell me all about 
it, if she would. Grace, has the Marquis ever heard you 
recite ? Only tell me, mother, if Grace is his bright, par- 
ticular star.” 

“ You should have been born on the other side of the 
Connecticut, you guess so well,” was Mrs. Elliot’s answer, 
as with a light laugh she passed from the room. 

Grace ventured to glance at Captain Stuart. Could that 
cold, stern face be the same, from whose every feature had 
lately breathed such passionate tenderness ? There was 
neither coldness nor sternness in his expostulation, when 
next he was alone with her. 

“ Grace, dear Grace, do not think it the dictate of jealous 
love, if I entreat you to have as little intercourse with this 
French fop as politeness will permit ; I cannot endure that 
men should associate my gentle Grace — my own sweet 


130 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


wife, as I hope soon to call her — with those who bow dowr. 
before this little man with a great name ; yet more painful 
would it be to me to have you feed his self-conceit, by even 
a passing fancy that you might have been his.” 

“ You do not believe that, 5 ’ murmured Grace. 

“No! no ! heaven forbid that I should. Yet, Grace, I 
would give much, that I had never seen you in his — , that 
I had never seen that hateful waltz.” 

“ I did not wish to waltz with him — indeed I did not ; 
but my aunt — how could I help it ? ' Pray do not speak to 
me of it again ; you have forgiven me.” 

“ You committed no fault against me then, Grace, for 
you had no obligation to me, and, however I might have 
disapproved, I had no right to resent ; but I will not speak 
of it again, since it gives you such pain.” He kissed off 
a tear from her cheek, and continued, “ Only promise me 
now, that you will have nothing to do with these theatri- 
cals; the whole thing is distasteful to me. Will you 
promise ?” 

“ I am sorry you cannot trust to my desire to please 
you, without binding me by a promise.” 

Her look, her tone, was reproachful ; and she attempted 
to withdraw from his encircling arm ; but he exclaimed, 
“ I do ! I do trust you, my beloved !” and the cloud van- 
ished from her face, and she suffered him again to support 
her. 

On the evening of this same day, when the tears which 
her first parting with her lover had drawn from Grace 
were scarce dry upon her cheeks, the Marquis de Ville- 
neuve was announced. She heard the announcement while 
standing in an inner room, urging Marion to accompany 
her to Mrs. Stuart’s. 

“ There is the Marquis,” said Marion ; “ you must stay 
and see him.” 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


131 


“ I do not wish to see Monsieur de Villeneuve.” 

“I believe in my heart Walter has forbidden you to 
receive him ,* he was always a little jealous about that 
waltz. Ah, poor Grace ! I know he is a sad tyrant ; I 
will give the Marquis a hint of it, and he will excuse you, 
I doubt not.” 

“ Nonsense, Marion ; what folly !” 

Grace spoke with a trepidation which betrayed the fear 
she really felt that Marion in his mad humor might give 
the threatened hint. He saw it, and with a manlike love 
of power and its display, exclaimed, “ If you would prove 
that my suspicion is wrong, come in the parlor with me, 
and receive the visit for which so many ladies would bar- 
ter their sweetest smiles. Ah ! you smile too ; you are 
not quite an icicle, I perceive. 5 ’ 

“ Marion, you are incorrigible . 55 

“So the ladies generally pronounce me, and therefore 
they let me do as I please . 55 

Grace seemed to concur in the uselessness of opposition 
to her cousin, for she no longer resisted his efforts to lead 
her into the parlor in which the Marquis de Villeneuve 
was receiving the cordial greetings of Mrs. Elliot. The 
previous conversation, and a mischievous whisper of, 
“ Don’t be too gracious, or I’ll report to Walter , 55 from 
Marion, gave to the reception accorded him by Grace an 
air of embarrassment even more flattering than this cor- 
diality. 

Marion soon introduced the subject of the private thea 
tricals, assuring the Marquis in somewhat hyperbolic 
terms, that though the paper had not named him, he was 
convinced he could not be wrong in attributing to him 
an idea so admirable in itself, and requiring such “ splen- 
dor of liberality,” — we use his own words — in its exe- 
cution. 


132 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


“ I am glad you are so pleased with it, said Monsieul 
de Villeneuve in reply, “but I must not take too much 
credit for myself ; the idea was not all for me.” 

“ Ah ! to which of your friends then must we make oui 
acknowledgments V 3 

“ Miss Elliot,” he said, “ looks so unknowing, so deter- 
mined she shall not know, that I am almost afraid to say it 
is to her.” 

“ To me !” exclaimed Grace, actually starting with 
surprise. 

“ Why Grace ! how sly you were, never to betray any 
knowledge of the matter this morning.” 

“ I could not betray what did not exist,” said Grace, 
with more energy than she usually exhibited, for she re- 
membered that Walter Stuart had said the whole thing 
was distasteful to him. 

“ Do you not remember our conversation one evening, 
when you had recited for me at your aunt’s request ?” 
asked the Marquis. “You said then you would like so 
much to see the private theatricals, and I have said to 
myself you should see them, and so you have given me 
the idea.” 

Grace had never received a compliment so awkwardly 
— could she have forgotten her conversation with Captain 
Stuart in the morning, few things would have given her so 
much delight ; but now — 

“ And I hope you will not refuse to aid us, you who 
have such a beautiful talent. All are waiting for you ; 
nothing can be done, till you select the play, and choose 
your own part.” 

“ Oh, no ! no, monsieur, I cannot take any part in it ; 
indeed I cannot.” 

“ Do not say so — mille pardons, mats — excuse me, but 
you make me to speak French. I am so grieved, I have 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


133 


no words in English to tell how much — the whole thing is 
finished if you do not take pity on us.” 

“ Pray madame,” to Mrs. Elliot. “ Pray monsieur, 
plead for me.” 

“It is so new an idea to Grace, that it may well startle 
her a little at first. Suppose we leave her to think of it 
for a day or two.” 

“ And you will plead for me ?” 

“ I will — though I think it will not be needed ; there is 
so much pleasure in what you propose.” 

“ And you, monsieur,” to Marion, “ will you use for me 
your influence with Miss Elliot?” 

“ I will with pleasure, but I fear it will be useless.” 

“ You think she is so determined ?” 

“ I believe Captain Stuart has a particular distaste to 
private theatricals ; has he not, Grace ?” asked the mis- 
chievous Marion. 

Grace colored, Mrs. Elliot frowned, and the Marquis, 
having remained silent for a moment, said, “ You cannot 
mean that it is the custom in America for a gentleman to 
give the law; in France it is the ladies who rule al- 
ways.” 

“ Pray form no opinion of our customs from what Ma- 
rion may say,” exclaimed Mrs. Elliot. 

“ Mother ! you are attacking me on my most impregna- 
ble point. I assure you, monsieur, I am the Chesterfield 
of our corps — a perfect master of the science of dress and 
address.” 

“ I wish you would let your knowledge of the last ap- 
pear more frequently,” ejaculated Mrs. Elliot in an under 
jme. 

“ I will do any thing to oblige you, dear mother ; and 
now, to begin, observe with what polished elegance I will 
offer Grace the escort for which she was pleading, when 

12 


134 


TWO L VES : OR, 


the Marquis entered.’’ He rose as he spoke, and approach 
mg Grace with a very deferential manner said, “ It will 
give me great pleasure, Miss Elliot, to wait on you now. 
Monsieur de Villeneuve will excuse me for a few minutes, 
when he knows that I go to accompany you to Mrs. Stuart’s 
— the mother of Captain Stuart, monsieur. So dear a 
duty—” 

“ Marion, you are very provoking ; pray, go to Mrs. 
Stuart’s yourself, and say to her that Grace would have 
come, but she has not been very well to-day, and I would 
not consent to it.” 

“ I go,” said Marion, bowing almost to his mother’s 
feet, “ for, born your slave, I live but to obey you.” 

With a perfect flourish of bows he left the room. When 
he returned, more than an hour afterwards, he passed the 
Marquis de Villeneuve in the hall, and on entering the 
parlor, found his mother and Grace at a table on which lay 
several volumes of the old English dramatists, and some 
more modern plays. 

“ Well, Grace, what play shall it be ?” he asked play- 
fully. 

“If I had any thing to do with it,” she replied, “it 
should be ‘ The Lady of Lyons,’ for I have always admired 
that so much, that I can repeat almost all of Pauline’s 
speeches, and what is a little strange, Monsieur de Ville- 
neuve is nearly as much at home in Claude Melnotte.” 

Marion looked at his mother with a meaning smile, 
which met no reply on her impassive face. Had Grace 
really no suspicion that Monsieur de Villeneuve’s remark- 
able familiarity with Claude Melnotte was the result of 
Mrs. Elliot’s repc rt of her predilection for Pauline ? 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


135 


CHAPTER XI. 

“ Look up ! there is a small bright cloud, 

Alone amid the skies ! 

So high, so pure, and so apart, 

A woman’s glory lies.” 

“ Dread was the wo in the face so young.” 

E. B. Barrett. 

Grace had parleyed with the tempter, and though she 
still continued true in word and action to her lover’s wishes, 
she was false to them at heart. 

“ I cannot take any part in your performance,” she still 
said to the Marquis. 

“ I ought not, aunt, indeed I ought not, after all that 
Walter said,” she still repeated to Mrs. Elliot ; but to her 
own heart, she admitted that it was very hard to be denied 
so innocent a pleasure, one which she so much desired, 
and which she never again could hope to enjoy. Except 
when reading the letters full of generous and confiding 
tenderness which she daily received from Captain Stuart, 
or when replying to them, she was occupied wholly by one 
idea — Pauline. How well she could represent the fair 
Lady of Lyons in her youthful beauty ; with what force 
of sympathy she could throw her whole soul into the part ; 
what scope it would afford for the display of her talent for 
recitation ! What an evening of triumph it would have 
been for her ! such a public compliment from the Marquis ! 
None could have doubted his admiration of her, who knew 
he had incurred such expense only to gratify her in a 
passing fancy. 


136 


TWO LIVES : OR. 


Ah! but for Walter’s strange notions, that evening 
would have been an epoch — a brilliant epoch in her life. 
She would have established herself indeed, “ as a bright, 
particular star,” in the world of intellect, as well as of 
fashion. And would he not have valued her more and 
loved her better when she had thus manifested her powers, 
when she had won the homage of the intellectual ? He 
would have felt then, that she could sympathize with his 
own high thoughts, though she might be too timid to ex- 
press that sympathy. 

While feeling thus, it will be readily conjectured that 
the Marquis de Villeneuve was not an unwelcome visiter 
to Grace. He talked to her of the play, and its progress, 
for he had given out the other parts, and made all arrange- 
ments for its representation, on the condition that she should 
be at last prevailed on to appear as Pauline. 

“ It is impossible, monsieur, it is useless to speak of it,” 
Grace would say with a laugh and a blush, at his persist- 
ing to make every thing depend upon her. 

“Well ! let me at least have the fancy, the illusion, as 
a reward for my devotion to your wish. It will be time 
enough when the day comes to give that up, and then our 
dresses will serve for tableaux vivans or a bal de costumes . 
Somehow we will have our amusement.” 

And so Grace went on in a pleasant but dangerous 
dream, studying, practising attitudes, rehearsing ; yet de- 
claring, and almost believing, that she would have nothing 
to do with the play. She had not resolution to say to Wal- 
ter Stuart, “ I think your demands unreasonable.” She 
had not firmness to resist, in her devotion to him, the in 
fluence of others. She would seem to him delicate as his 
fastidious fancy, devoted as his wish ; but she would also 
seem to others, the bright enchantress of the Marquis de 
Villeneuve; the first in talent, as in beauty. She might 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


137 


be both these, if, conscious of her power, she had yet been 
willing to lay the offerings to her vanity on the altar of her 
love ; but to seem them both, to satisfy that restless desire 
of praise, which still cries, f ( Give, give,” here was the 
difficulty — a difficulty which all must at some time en- 
counter, who live for others, not for their own souls and 
for Heaven. 

And while Grace was thus approaching a precipice, was 
there no kind hand near to arrest her progress ? Mrs. 
Stuart's heart had opened to Walter’s selected wife. She 
met the gentle and affectionate attentions of Grace with 
true and warm regard, and in the strength of that regard, 
she would not have hesitated to warn and Counsel ; but 
she suspected no danger, she knew nothing of the play ; 
she heard nothing of the Marquis de Villeneuve. Marion’s 
laughing remonstrances were little heeded, they only 
served to familiarize Grace with the terrors which he 
threatened. She laughed so often with him at Walter’s 
jealousy and Walter’s anger, that she could scarcely re- 
gard them at last as very grave affairs. But there was 
one who saw all, heard all, and would have thrown her- 
self between her and the evil she was tempting. 

“ Grace, I do not like that Marquis de Villeneuve,” said 
Isabel one morning as she turned from the window, from 
which she had just seen him kiss his hand to them as he 
passed up Broadway with another gentleman. 

“ Don’t you ?” asked Grace, carelessly ; “ that is un- 
grateful, Bella, for he admires you, though he acknowledges 
there is something about you which awes him.” 

Isabel colored. “ It is the effect I would most like to 
produce upon him. I desire always to awe impertinence.” 

“ But how has he been impertinent ?” 

“ 1 think there is impertinence in the confidence with 
which he approaches you.” 


12* 


138 


TWO LIVES : OR. 


“ I do not perceive it.” 

The tones of Grace showed her not well pleased at the 
suggestion, and Isabel remained a long time -silent, while 
the lines of her expressive face were marked with anxious 
thought. At length she arose, and approaching Grace, 
hrew her arms around her, and pressing her lips to hei 
cheek, said tenderly, “ Love me, dear Grace ; love me as 
you did in our own dear home.” 

This was an exhortation to which the sensitive heart of 
Grace ever responded, and she replied with a caress, “I 
do, Bella, I,always have — -though sometimes I have thought 
you were cold to me.” 

“ Pardon me, dear Grace, if I have ever seemed so, 
and believe me I have always loved you dearly. I would 
have you feel this now especially, for I am going to say 
what love, great love only can excuse. Do not turn away 
from me, sister, friend, beloved Grace. There, lie there, 
sweet sister, on my bosom, and I will ask you questions 
and read their answers in your eyes. You do love Wal- 
ter Stuart, do you not ? Ah ! you need not say a word. 
I have your answer in that quick smile and blush, and 
the sudden throb of your heart. You would rather never 
see this Marquis than give him one moment’s pain ; do not 
start away from me. I know it, and I am sure that when 
I tell you I think his present intimacy here would give 
Walter great pain, you will not permit it to continue.” 

Grace had already withdrawn herself from Isabel’s 
arms, and she answered coldly, “ I really do not see what 
you would have me do, Isabel ; I cannot send away Aunt 
Elliot’s visiters.” 

“ But you can decline seeing them, dear Grace.” 

“ And make myself ridiculous, shutting myself up like 
a widow, because Walter leaves me. I should think there 
was little delicacy or propriety in that.” 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


139 


“ But must you receive visits which you know would 
grieve Walter V’ 

“ If Walter were here to be grieved by them, Isabel, I 
would not receive them ; but it is too much to ask that I 
should consult his fancies, in matters of which he can 
never know any thing, and when no word of approval from 
him can reward me for the sacrifice I make.” 

“ But Walter will return, Grace ; think of how a look 
from him will then reward you.” 

Grace smiled for one moment, the next she said sadly, 
‘Before I see him again, we shall have forgotten the 
Marquis de Villeneuve, at least so I fear from his last letter. 
It is about the postman’s time now,” she added, glancing 
at the mantel-clock. 

He was true to his time, and Grace had scarcely ceased 
speaking, when a servant entered, bringing her a letter 
from Walter Stuart. Had Isabel doubted her love for him 
before, she would have seen it in the joy-lighted face with 
which Grace recognised the beloved hand. 

“ Oh, Isabel ! how could you ask me if I loved him ?” 
she exclaimed with moist eyes, as she pressed her quivering 
lips to the writing. Before she had finished reading, that 
tender moisture fell in large drops of sorrow. 

“ Oh, Isabel ! my fears were prophetic. The gentlemen 
whom he went to see, have kept him moving after them 
from place to place, until he has no time to return here. 
It is very little comfort to me, that he has prevented their 
fighting, though he seems to feel as if it ought to repay us 
for every thing.” 

“Generous Walter!” exclaimed Isabel, sympathizing 
jnore with his noble feelings than with the grief of Grace. 

“ Too generous by half,” almost sobbed Grace, as she 
continued to read, “ he has given up applying for an ex. 
,ension of his leave at present, at the request of Colonel 


140 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


Lee. I think everybody’s wishes have more influence 
with him than mine.” 

“ If it be so, it is because you are as a part of himself, 
and he has not been accustomed to consult his own wishes ; 
but dry your eyes, dear Grace, and let us go to Mrs. 
Stuart’s, and hear what she will say about him.” 

They went, and Grace sobbed out her reproaches against 
her lover on his mother’s bosom. “ If my whole heart 
were not filled with admiration of his noble self-denial for 
duty’s sake, Grace, I would try to blame him a little for 
having made you weep.” 

“ Ah ! you do not love him as I do, or you could not be 
satisfied to have him stay away when he might have been 
with you.” 

“ I will admit, my dear child, that I do not love him 
as you do exactly ; his society is very dear to me, but 
there is one thing dearer — his honor ; and that is in my 
opinion inseparable from his conscientious discharge of his 
duty.” 

To have had Walter Stuart again at her side, Grace 
would readily have promised never again to see the Mar- 
quis de Villeneuve, never to dream of Pauline, but she 
could not even hope for him, and she soon ceased to resist 
the influences surrounding her. In vain were Isabel’s re- 
peated remonstrances. 

“ It is of no use talking to me, Isabel,” she said in 
answer to them, “I cannot see any reason why, when 
Walter prefers Colonel Lee’s convenience, or Captain This 
and Lieutenant That’s safety to my happiness, I am to re- 
linquish the little pleasure left me in his absence, because 
he may not like it. He will not hear any thing of the 
play or of my part in it, till all feeling on the subject would 
be folly, unless you take the trouble to tell him of it.” 

“ You know me too well, Grace, to believe that ; but 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


141 


bear with me while I ask one question — have you thought 
of the misery of having a secret from Walter — something 
which you dread his hearing ?” 

“ I do not intend to have a secret from him — I shall tell 
him ; I only want to take my own time for it. Everybody 
is wondering why I hesitate to join in a diversion, in which 
I cannot deny I should have so great delight. I acknow- 
ledge I have not courage to say to them, Because Walter 
Stuart does not like it.” 

Isabel was not convinced, but she was silenced, and as 
Marion had now returned to his duties, and Mrs. Stuart 
was kept in complete ignorance of the purposed amuse- 
ment, there was nothing to interpose between Grace and 
the fate she was daring so boldly. Excepting an occasional 
letter to Walter and a daily visit to Mrs. Stuart, her whole 
time was now occupied in preparing for the evening, in the 
splendor of whose anticipated triumphs all sense of accom- 
panying ill was lost. She who suffers a wish inconsistent 
with the presence of a beloved object to occupy her ima- 
gination or her heart, has become already half a traitress 
to her love. Grace, who had so lately wept in anguish at 
her separation from Captain Stuart, would now have found 
few things so much to be dreaded, as his immediate return. 
Every letter from him gave her fuller assurance that she 
need not expect him, yet she never attended a renearsal, or 
arrayed herself in either of the dresses in which Pauline 
was, at different periods of her eventful history, to present 
herself, without a sudden paleness overspreading her face 
at the thought, “ If he should come now !” But day passed 
after day, week after week, and he came not ; he threat- 
ened not to come. 

At length the week, the day, the hour, the very minute 
is here, — and Grace, arrayed in the gay dress in which the 
young Pauline is first to appear, her cheeks glowing, her 


142 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


eyes sparkling with excitement, enters Isabel’s room, hold, 
ing up a splendid bouquet, and exclaiming, “ See what the 
Marquis has sent me !” 

Isabel took the flowers in her hand, and read on a slip 
of paper appended to them, “ To Pauline, from her humble 
and hopeless adorer, Claude Melnotte.” She returned 
them to Grace without a word. 

“ But why are you not dressed, Isabel ?” 

“ I am dressed as much as I intend to be, Gratfe.” 

“ There will be quite a large company, Isabel.” 

“ They will be too much occupied with Pauline to ob- 
serve me.” 

“ I believe in my heart, Isabel, you think your perfectly 
plain dress becoming to what Inman calls your Juno-like 
style.” 

“ I certainly would not wish to wear any thing unbe- 
coming.” 

“ No, you have too much taste to do that ; but, pray 
now, let Martel, when he has finished dressing Aunt 
Elliot’s hair, just fasten some ornament, if only a flower, 
in yours. That simple braid of glossy jet is very classical, 
I allow, and not unbecoming, but it looks so determinately 
plain.” 

“I do not wish to look determinately any thing ; so, 
without calling in Martel’s aid, I will add the ornament 
you desire.” Isabel placed a pearl comb in her hair, and 
asked, “ Does that please you better ?” 

“ Yes ; a great deal better. Not that I really think 
you handsomer for it, but it does not look so much as if 
you thought I was acting very naughtily, and were re- 
solved that you at least would not show any pleasure 
in it.” 

“You were very much mistaken, dear Grace, if you 
supposed that I wished to express any such sentiment. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


143 


What I thought, I have told you frankly ; and you know 
I would not go this evening, if you had not entreated it so 
earnestly ; but having consented, and knowing that I can 
make no change in your designs, do not believe for a mo- 
ment that I would throw a shadow over the enjoyment for 
which you incur such a penalty.” 

“ Penalty !” 

“ Is not the confession which you will have to maKe to 
W alter a penalty ? I should think it one of no light char- 
acter.” 

“ It will not cost me so much to come to the confessional 
as it would you ; I am not so proud, I will ask pardon so 
humbly, that W alter will love me better than if I had never 
offended ; but I must not think of Walter now, but of 
Claude Melnotte, * who sends me these beautiful flowers.’ ” 

For once, reality surpassed the dream of fancy. Grace 
had imagined nothing so beautiful in its completeness as 
the little dressing-room Vith its exquisite toilette arrange- 
ments, the small, but well-proportioned and well-lighted 
stage, now a mimic drawing-room, and the elegance of the 
apartment beyond, in which was the audience lounging 
upon such luxurious couches as never theatre before fbr- 
nished. To her compliments on his taste and liberality, 
the Marquis replied, “ It was you who inspired me.” He 
really seemed inspired, remembering his part wonderfully 
for an amateur performer, and showing considerable readi- 
ness in supplying what was forgotten. But Grace was the 
presiding genius of the scene. The very difficulties over 
which she had triumphed, or rather the effort which that 
triumph had demanded, seemed now to lend a new impulse 
to her talent. She looked, she spoke, she acted her part to 
perfection, and more than once the plaudits which eti- 
quette had proscribed, burst from the enthusiasm of the 
spectators. When the last words had been spoken, and 


144 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


Pauline had shed her last tears on the bosom of her iover« 
husband, Grace resumed the splendid dress which had been 
Pauline’s wedding garb, and assisted at a supper prepared 
and served in the most recherche style. This was a new 
and more intoxicating triumph, for here the most distin- 
guished guests lavished on her alone the eulogies in which 
others might previously, at least, have seemed to share ; 
and the entertainer, no longer as the humble Claude Mel- 
notte, but as the most noble the Marquis de Villeneuve, de- 
voted himself to her with the most undisguised admiration. 
Mrs. Elliot was all smiles, all gayety ; her warmest de- 
sires, her brightest anticipations for Grace seemed near 
their accomplishment, and more than once the thought 
passed across her mind, “ If W alter will but stay away 
long enough, all will be well.” 

Far differently did Isabel view the scene. She strove in 
vain to banish a thousand painful thoughts — were they pre- 
sentiments ? Pauline and Grace Elliot were strangely 
mingled in her mind. Could the passionate lover of Claude 
Melnotte be indeed the affianced wife of W alter Stuart ? 
The despairing sorrow — was it all an illusion; had it 
passed with the hour, and would it throw no shadow on the 
stream of her cousin’s life ? Above all, her delicate and 
lofty nature questioned, qould that familiar touch, that pas- 
sionate embrace ever be forgotten ? Such thoughts gave a 
sadness to her countenance, a gravity to her manner, which 
more than one little mind attributed to jealousy of her 
cousin’s superior attractions. 

The last act in the drama of the evening was at length 
completed, the last plaudits were given and received. 

“ May I call on you to-morrow morning ?” asked the 
Marquis, as, having wrapped Grace carefully in her cloak, 
he drew her hand through his arm to lead her to her car- 
riage. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


145 


“ This morning you mean,” said Grace, with a silvery 
.augh, as the clocks from the City-Hall and St. Paul’s 
tolled one. “ You must not come very early, if you expect 
to see me.” 

Exhausted by her efforts, Grace rode home in almost 
unbroken silence, which her companions felt little desire to 
interrupt. They were admitted without ringing, by the 
footman, who carried a night-key for that purpose. They 
found the hall lighted as they had left it, and through the 
half-opened door of the front parlor perceived that there 
was a bright light burning there also. 

“Can your uncle be sitting up for us ?” exclaimed Mrs. 
Elliot, throwing the door widely open. Isabel and Grace 
advanced within it, and both turned pale with dismay ; for 
before them, with his tall form elevated to its utmost height, 
his arms folded across his bosom, his face ghastly pale, and 
an indescribable mingling of pride and sorrow expressed in 
his contracted brow and stern eye, stood Walter Stuart. 
Grace was checked only for a moment. With that almost 
superhuman energy that comes to the feeblest who believes 
that life’s weal or wo hang suspended on the events of the 
passing hour, she roused herself and advanced towards her 
lover, with her hands extended and a smile upon her lips, 
though her face reflected still the .paleness of his. Instead 
of taking the hands she proffered, he folded his own arms 
more tightly around him, and bent his eyes with a still 
sterner glance upon her. 

“Will you not speak to me, Walter?” she cried in a 
tone of agony. “ Tell me at least what I have done, how 
I have offended you.” 

He pointed silently to a book that lay open before him, 
she glanced at it, and saw at the head of the page “ The 
Lady of Lyons.” For a moment she was silenced, but as 
she saw him move, she sprang fonvard to arrest his steps, 
13 


146 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


exclaiming, “You cannot leave me so, Walter; it would 
be too cruel.’’ 

He shrank from her, saying as he did so, “ Touch me 
not with hands yet warm from the clasp of another.” 

She recoiled from his path, wringing the hands she had 
hitherto extended to him. Thus she stood till she saw him 
about to pass Isabel ; then, turning to her her pallid face, 
and speaking in tones which only a breaking heart sup 
plies, she exclaimed, “ Oh ! plead for me, Isabel.” 

“ Walter, you will not leave her thus ; look at her.” 

He faltered for a moment, and turned towards Grace. 
Her cloak had fallen off, and her gay dress recalled to him 
not his Grace, but Pauline. 

“ She is an accomplished actress, Isabel,” he said, and 
would again have passed on, but Isabel threw herself before 
him, “ Walter, you cannot be so merciless. Remember 
how young she is.” 

“ Young indeed, Isabel, and yet so skilled in artifice.” 

“ Think how she loves you, Walter.” 

“ All seeming, Isabel, all seeming ; had she loved me, she 
would have respected my honor in her own ; I saw her, 
Isabel, saw her this night in the arms of another. Let him 
take what he has touched, — I will have none of her.” 

He strode on. He was beyond the door, when a faint, 
imploring cry from Grace reached his ear ; he could not 
resist it, he turned again, she was falling to the floor, 
though half supported by Isabel’s arm. It was the very 
attitude of the fainting Pauline. “ It is but acting,” he 
repeated to himself, and steeled by the thought, rushed 
from the house. 

Alas ! it was no acting. It was long ere Mrs. Elliot and 
sabel could arouse the wretched girl to consciousness. 
When they did, the first effort of her feeble voice was tc 
ask in broken tones, Is Walter here ?” 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


147 


“We will send for him, dear Grace,” said Isabel sooth- 
ingly. She raised herself from the pillows of the couch on 
which she had been laid, glanced wildly around her, and 
sank back in another and more deadly swoon. A physician 
was now summoned to her, and it was long after daylight 
when he left her, charging Mrs. Elliot and Isabel on no 
account to awake her from the deep, heavy slumber into 
which she had been at last thrown by an overpowering 
anodyne. Ere that slumber had passed away, Walter 
Stuart was far distant from New York on his return to Vir- 
ginia, leaving for his mother a letter written between the 
time of his going from Mr. Elliot’s house and the departure 
of the first steamboat for Philadelphia. To Mrs. Stuart, 
who had not seen him at all, the intelligence of this hurried 
and, for Grace, most ill-timed visit, was like a wild dream. 
She afterwards learned that Colonel Lee, grateful to Cap- 
tain Stuart for his ready sacrifice of his own wishes for a 
prolonged leave of absence to his convenience, and having 
learned from Marion Elliot the extent of that sacrifice, had 
offered him a commission to New York on regimental busi- 
ness, which, requiring only a few hours for its execution, 
would yet furnish an excuse for a visit there of several days, 
or a week. “ I will give you a fortnight’s leave, Stuart ; 
it will take you a week to come and go, and I will not de- 
mand a very strict account of the remainder of the time. 
Only one thing let me advise, my dear fellow, attend to the 
business on which you go, first. That is due to the ser- 
vice.” 

Walter Stuart gladly accepted this offer He had no 
time to write, and pleased himself, as many have done before 
him, with the thought of the pleasant surprise he was about 
o give. He arrived about midday in New York, and, 
with his usual rigid observance of duty, gave his first 
hours to the business on which he had been sent. It took 


148 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


him to Governor’s Island, and detained him there till seven 
o’clock in the evening. Hurrying then to Mr. Elliot’s 
house, he found that gentleman alone, and to his impatient 
inquiries for Grace, received the reply that she had gone 
to some sort of entertainment given by the Marquis de 
Villeneuve. The disappointment, the more than disap- 
pointment, expressed in Walter’s face induced Mr. Elliot 
to add, “ He sent me a card, it was a mere compliment, 
for he knew I should not go, but it may serve you if I can 
find it ; for as it only Says 4 Admit the bearer,’ it will suit 
Captain Stuart as well as Mr. Elliot.” 

After a little search the card was found. “ But you 
will make your toilet first, must you go back to your mo- 
ther’s for that.” 

“ No, I came so unexpectedly that I would not send my 
baggage to my mother’s till I had seen her ; it is at the 
City Hotel.” 

“ That is fortunate, for this entertainment — some sort 
of fancy ball, I think, from the way in which Grace was 
dressed — is there too.” 

A half hour sufficed for Captain Stuart’s hasty toilet, 
and having presented his card to the tloorkeeper of the 
little theatre, he was admitted without a question. He 
entered as quietly as possible, and taking a seat in a distant 
corner of the room, with a heart burning with wounded 
pride and jealous love, saw all — all — . 

When the play was ended, he withdrew as quietly as 
he had entered, resolved, — yes, resolved — not to sleep till 
he had given back to Grace Elliot her freedom from all 
bonds to him. His heart might break, but it should be by 
sudden wrench, not by the slow process of marriage with 
one in whose truth he could not confide. He was not one 
“ to doat, yet doubt — suspect, yet strongly love.” And yet 
it was not jealousy, not the influence of another over her, 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


149 


not the mimic yet life-like tenderness which he had seen 
her exhibit towards that other, from which his resolution 
sprang, but the studied concealment, the carefully contrived 
deception that marked a soul untrue. From the play he 
returned to Mr. Elliot’s, and sat for more than an hour 
feeding his soul’s bitterness with every tender passage 
spoken by Pauline, before the arrival of Grace produced 
the explosion we have recorded. With every vein and 
artery swollen, and throbbing with bitter, burning passion, 
he rushed into the air and trod for hours the almost de- 
serted streets, — hither, — thither, — he knew not, cared not 
where. Night and silence were around him, but he felt 
not their solemn influence. A deep sense of wrong en- 
dured — an undying tenderness — terrible was the conflict 
between these principles, and his heart was their torn and 
trampled battle-ground. At four o’clock he made his way 
to the City Hotel, where his baggage had been left. He 
was outwardly calm, not with the peace of heaven which 
elevates us above earth and its sorrows, but with the still- 
ness of despair. He had ceased to struggle, because he 
had ceased to hope. His decision was made, his plans 
arranged, and he hastened to execute them. Unlocking a 
small desk which formed a part of his baggage, he took 
from it a package of letters, which, having carefully put 
up and sealed, he directed to “ Miss Elliot” — then drawing 
the desk to him, he commenced writing rapidly, but ere 
he had proceeded far, tore what he had written, and cast 
it on the floor with an impatient movement. A second 
and a third attempt were equally unsuccessful, and start- 
ing from his chair he seemed ready to relinquish the task 
as beyond his powers ; but after several turns across his 
room he again drew near the table, and with a slower and 
more subdued manner commenced and completed the fol- 
lowing letter: 


13 * 


150 


TWO LIVES . OR, 


City Hotel, £ past 4, A. M. 

Mother — I must leave you to learn from others the 
cause of my hurried visit. I cannot even give you any 
connected account of the circumstances which will ever 
render that visit a terrible epoch in my life. There is 
but one thought in my heart, and of that only can I 
write. 

Mother — Grace Elliot and I are parted forever. Do not 
suppose that my words are the dictate of jealous passion, 
raised in a moment and in a moment soothed. No — the 
wild tempest of feeling had subsided ; passion was silenced 
before my heart issued her decree, and now it is in the 
deep stillness of the soul’s utter desolation, I pronounce 
the sentence, we are parted forever. God knows how gladly 
I would escape from the doom. Already my heart would 
find excuses for her, already I long to fold her in my arms, 
to lay her head upon my bosom and whisper words of ten- 
derness in her ear, but an influence higher and holier than 
even my love for her forbids me. Were only my happi- 
ness involved, I would leave to her the decision of our 
destiny; but there is more, far more than happiness at 
hazard. I know my weakness and her power, and with 
my confidence in her principles, her truth , destroyed, 1 
dare not perpetuate that power. Call me not severe, mo- 
ther — fancy not that I have withdrawn my confidence upon 
light grounds. Under the thin mask of a fictitious charac- 
ter I have seen her bestow on another looks, words, nay, 
even caresses, for which I would have given my life ; yet 
even this I might have forgiven. Time would perchance 
have swept from my brain the scorching impress of my 
affianced wife weeping in speechless tenderness on another’s 
bosom ; but who, what shall restore my trust in the truth 
of her who for weeks has plotted to deceive me ? who, 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


151 


writing many letters, has been so skilled in artifice as never 
once to have been betrayed into truth. To seem, what I 
wished has been her effort, and how shall I know that her 
whole life is not seeming ? Should I make her my wife 
without confidence in her principles I should become a 
suspicious tyrant, soured in temper, chilled in heart, nar- 
rowed in mind ; I dare not incur such a risk, I dare not 
court such a wreck of my moral being, and therefore again 
I say, we are parted forever. 

I have striven in vain to tell her this, as it should be 
told — calmly, yet decidedly — without weak relentings on 
the one side, or bitter reproaches on the other. To you, 
my first and best friend, I must commit the task. Her 
letters, a few hours since my most valued treasures, are 
already enveloped and addressed to her. I shall leave 
them myself at your door, — for I am unwilling to intrust 
them to another hand ; yet though at your door, I dare not 
see you. The interview would unman me wholly. I 
shall set out immediately for Philadelphia, on my return to 
my post. 

And now, my mother, one last, earnest prayer, and I 
have done. Do not write me yourself — suffer no one else 
to write me on this subject. My decision is irreversible ; 
appeals may harrow my heart, but they can never shake 
my convictions nor restore my lost faith. 

Dear mother ! pray for your son, 

W. Stuart. 

Mrs. Stuart had not yet risen when this letter was hand- 
ed to her, and she had not recovered from the bewildering 
surprise excited by its contents, when Isabel Douglass was 
announced. She received her in her own apartment. 
Isabel was remarkable for composure of manner, but now 
her step was hurried, her air disturbed, and as soon as she 


152 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


had entered, she exclaimed m quick, agitated tones, “ Oh, 
Mrs. Stuart ! where is Walter?” 

“ On his way to Philadelphia, as I learn from this letter, 
which I hope you can explain to me.” 

She handed the letter to Isabel, who glanced rapidly over 
it, and looking up as she concluded it, with a flushed cheek 
and a kindling eye, exclaimed, “ Surely he will not persist 
in such cruelty !” 

“ Is it cruelty, Isabel ?” 

“ Come with me and look at my poor Grace, and I am 
convinced you will call it so.” 

“ Poor Grace ! I feel for her from my soul ; for, how- 
ever she may have deserved this, I know it will cause her 
deep suffering.” 

“ Deserved it ! How has she deserved it ? Is a girlish 
love of amusement to be so severely visited ?” 

“ No, Isabel ; and if this be all of which Grace can 
truly he accused, my mother’s heart shall not shield Wal- 
ter from my severest blame. But what was the amuse- 
ment ?” 

“ The performance of a play. I know you will disap- 
prove of it ; so do I : but we cannot deny that there are 
delicate-minded and pure-hearted women who differ from 
us ; and Captain Stuart, with all his fastidiousness, cannot 
even in his thought throw a shadow over the delicacy and 
the purity of Grace Elliot.” 

“ I am certain he will not ; but, if I remember his let- 
ter aright, you have not touched the point which influ- 
enced him.” She opened the letter, and glancing over it, 
continued, “ He says that it is- because his confidence in 
her principles, her truth, was destroyed ; that he dares not 
perpetuate her power. He expressly declares that he 
could have forgnen her all, except her plotting to deceive 
him ; her skill in artifice.” 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


153 


“ It is her first offence against him,” said Isabel, in a 
lower tone, and with a more subdued manner. 

“Were it only against him, though it were her hundred 
and first, W alter loved her too well not to have forgiven it. 
But, Isabel, this offence was against a Higher than he. It 
was a triumph of vanity, the desire for man’s applause, 
over that regard for the true and the right, which lies at 
the foundation of earthly as well as heavenly hope, with- 
out which there is no sanctity in marriage ; no holiness, 
and therefore no happiness, in home. No, Isabel, I love 
Grace, I pity her, I weep for her,” — tears were streaming 
down her cheeks, — “ but I cannot desire that she should be - 
Walter’s wife.” 

Isabel was silent. The flush had vanished from her 
cheek, the fire from her eye. In her sympathy for Grace’s 
suffering, she had for a time forgotten her sin ; but now 
she felt that if she had fallen into a pit, it was into that 
which her own hands had digged. At length she rose, 
with a dejected air, to bid Mrs. Stuart good morning ; but 
placing her arm tenderly around her, and drawing her to 
her side, that lady said, “ My dear child, you must learn 
to look upward, for Grace as well as for yourself. For 
her, too, trials spring not from the earth, but are the wise 
discipline of love — our Father’s love. Think you I need 
no such comfort for Walter ?” 

“ Ah ! Walter will soon need no comfort. Earth has a 
thousand Lethean streams for man, in her honors, her 
wealth, her daily-recurring demands ; but woman— her 
life is in her love, and what shall take its place in her 
heart ?” 

“ Heaven !” answered Mrs. Stuart solemnly ; “ and we 
will not complain, dear Isabel, that earth does not speak to 
us with so many voices as- it does to man, if thereby we 
may hear more clearly the still, small voice of God. Man 


154 


TWO LIVES . OR, 


drinks of these Lethean streams, and grows cold in forget- 
fulness, or hard in contempt ; we will not mourn that 
woman is shut out from them, if thereby she is driven 
heavenward, and becomes spiritualized and elevated.” 

“ If — ah ! if — ” ejaculated Isabel, feeling doubtful, 
perhaps, whether Grace were one on whom sorrow would 
be likely to produce such influences ; “ but,” she added 
after a moment’s pause, “ you will be very tender to her ; 
you will not let this blow fall too suddenly ?” 

“ I will do all that tenderness can do to spare her.” 

Had Mrs. Stuart made no such resolution, she must 
equally have acted in its spirit, when she stood beside 
Grace, and saw the change which sorrow had wrought on 
her in a few short hours. 

It was impossible to have stood, even for a few weeks, in 
such close relation to Walter Stuart as Grace had done, 
without being impressed by the iron resolution which form- 
ed the basis of his character. His moral features were 
chiselled in marble, not moulded in wax. Grace felt that 
if once his reason decided against her, his heart, suffer as 
it might, would not resist the decision. Could she have 
seen him again, there might indeed have been hope, but the 
intelligence that he had left New York, sounded as the 
death-knell of her happiness ; and though her heart still 
throbbed at the postman’s ring, and her pale cheek flushed 
at a sudden step, the feeble hope lived but a moment, and 
each disappointment tightened the grasp of despair. Mrs. 
Stuart evaded any explanation with her, till her health had 
recovered from the first stunning blow, — then she handed 
her the package containing her own letters, with the single 
remark : “ These were placed in my hands for you, with 
a letter addressed to me.” 

The package lay untouched upon the lap of Grace, 
where Mrs. Stuart had placed it ; she closed her eyes as 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


155 


if to shut it from her sight, while her face became deadly 
pale. Fearing that she would faint, Mrs. Stuart offered 
her a glass of water, but she put it hastily aside, and rous- 
ing herself, asked, “ May I see that letter ?” 

“ You may, if you desire it, Grace, but — ” 

“ I do desire it,” interrupted Grace ; “ I would know all 
at once, and then be at rest forever. Oh God ! that I could 
rest in the grave !” and she dropped her head into her 
hands and sobbed convulsively. 

“ God can give you a better rest, dear child,” whispered 
Mrs. Stuart, and laying the letter on her lap, quietly with- 
drew from the room, and closed the door after her. 


CHAPTER XII. 

“ Yea ! even the name I have worshipp’d in vain, 

Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again ; 

To bear is to conquer our fate.” 

. Campbell. 

Nearly four years have passed away since Isabel and 
Grace took leave of the South. Let us see what traces 
these years have left upon their early home and its inhab- 
itants. We saw that home last when Spring was just 
ripening into Summer, and we return to it in December, 
yet the scenery seems little changed. The river flows on 
unobstructed by ice, its waves dancing and sparkling as 
joyously as of old ; and roses, rose trees we may well call 
them, are blooming freshly in the open air. Yet some 
change, on nearer examination, does appear. The grass 
which was so green, and smooth, and soft, is now brown 


156 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


and crisped, and though the oaks, and cedars, and pines 
have not lost a leaf of their darkly verdant foliage, the 
pride of India no longer shows its clusters of delicate lilach 
flowers, or its beautifully serrated leaves ; only its once 
glistening berries, now withered and darkened, hang on its 
bare branches, food for the robins, driven by winter from 
colder climates, whose cheerful notes seem to thank Him 
who has spread this feast for them in their new home. Bujt 
let us go within the house. Here too all remains the same 
The despotic sway of fashion, it may easily be seen, ex- 
tends not here ; for the furniture, good and even handsome 
as it is, would long ago have been discarded from the 
house of even a third-rate fashionable in New York, or 
Philadelphia, or Boston. The door of a parlor stands in- 
vitingly open, and we will enter there. It is a cheerful 
room, for through the uncurtained windows the sun beams 
from the south, and tempts one to look abroad, while the 
blazing, crackling logs, the bright andirons across which 
they lie, and the cleanly swept hearth, tell a tale of comfort 
and hospitality, and make that first impression, whose im- 
portance all acknowledge, a very agreeable impression. 
Three persons are in this room. One is our old acquaint- 
ance, Aunt Nancy, who still appears in the same costume 
in which we saw her last — a black bombasine dress, and a 
white muslin handkerchief folded plainly across the bosom. 
On her gentle and kindly face time has touched lightly, 
and if he have added whiteness to her already gray hair, 
her simple mob cap, with its close border of lace, conceals it. 
She sits in a large rocking-chair, and near her on two 
small benches are seated two young black girls, probably 
about twelve years old, sewing. Their round plump forms, 
and their good-humored faces, show that life has not gone 
hardly with them. 

Aunt Nancy sits so that she can look out upon the river, 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


157 


for she has sent a man to the nearest post-office, which is 
five miles distant by water. After many a fruitless glance, 
she sees or fancies a dark speck upon the sparkling wa- 
ters, and Rose and Flora are called to the windows, that 
she may have the evidence of younger and better eyes on 
the subject. They profess at first to be doultful, indeed 
Rose cannot see the speck at all ; but at length it becomes 
visible even to her ; it grows larger, the sun flashes on the 
broad paddle as it plays rapidly now on this side and now 
on that, and before many minutes have passed, the small, 
light canoe with its single jetty guide, may be distinctly 
seen. Very soon it is at the wharf, and scarcely waiting 
to fasten it there, the boatman hastens towards the house, 
putting on as he goes the jacket, which he had found too 
warm while he paddled. 

“Well, Harry! have you brought any letters?” asks 
Aunt Nancy as he enters the parlor hat in hand. 

“ Yes, ma’am ! I bring two, and I tink one is from young 
missis, else Miss Isabel, ent it, Miss Nancy?” and Harry 
hands the letters, showing the one whose postmark had be- 
come so familiar to him, that, without reading a letter, 
he recognises it everywhere. The letter was from Isabel, 
and when assured of this, he waited quietly for the intelli- 
gence it might convey. It proved to be intelligence worth 
waiting for; Grace was coming to spend the remainder 
of the winter at home. 

“ Dat’s de best letter I bring you yet, Miss Nancy,” ex- 
claimed Harry, with a face literally shining with pleasure. 
“ Young missis a coming home ; dat’s good news for true, 
— and Miss Isabel too, ma’am, ent it ?” 

“ No, Harry ! Miss Grace is coming by the advice of 
the doctor, because she has been sick, and .her aunt Elliot 
is kindly coming with her, to take care of her, and Miss 
Isabel must stay to keep house for her uncle, while Mrs. 

14 


158 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


Elliot is away. Now, Miss Grace is only coming on a 
visit, but the next winter, I hope, Miss Isabel and she will 
both come home to live.” 

“ I ’sure, ma’am, we’ll all be glad when dat day come,” 
and with this assurance Harry retired. 

Aunt Nancy turned to fyer letter again, but before she 
began its reperusal, she looked up to say to Rose and Flora 
that they might put up their sewing, and carry the rews 
of Miss Grace’s visit to their grandmother. This grand- 
mother was the blind old Hagar — for these girls were 
cousins — and soon they might have been seen running, 
jumping, dancing on the way to her house, shouting to all 
whom they saw that Miss Grace was coming. 

To Aunt Nancy, the pleasure of that letter was not all 
unmixed. It would be joy indeed, — inexpressible joy, — to 
fold one of her nurslings to her heart, in this the home of 
their childhood, but why were they not both coming l 
The reason that was given seemed to her scarcely suffi- 
cient. The letter communicated too the rupture of Grace’s 
engagement with Captain Stuart, without assigning any 
reason for it. Isabel wrote with evident reluctance on the 
subject, with which, she said, Grace had desired that her 
aunt should be acquainted before they met, as she wished 
never again to refer to it. This was not very satisfactory 
intelligence of Grace, and of herself Isabel was even less 
communicative; though here, too, there was something in 
her tone which indicated to one whose perceptions were 
quickened by her affections, that the unreflecting joyous- 
ness of the child had passed away from her, and that if 
happiness sill remained, it was the graver, more thought- 
ful happiness of the woman. One sentence in the letter 
gave Aunt Nancy deep joy ; it was this : “ I think, dear 
Aunt Nancy, that I can leave every thing respecting my- 
self to God, not only with a submissive, but with a re- 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


159 


joicing spirit. I have no desire to take myself out of His 
hands. I find such blessedness in resting quietly, gently 
in His arms ; but it is harder to trust thus for those we 
love.” 

There were others besides Aunt Nancy, who thought 
that Mrs. Elliot’s leaving Isabel with Mr. Elliot during 
her absence, showed a very unusual and even unnecessary 
degree of care for his domestic comfort. Could they have 
known how absorbing her desire for the marriage of Grace 
with the Marquis de Villeneuve had become, and how 
Isabel’s presence interfered with the accomplishment of 
that desire, they could better have appreciated her motives. 
For months past Mr. Elliot had pressed upon his wife the 
necessity of retrenchment in their mode of living, acknow- 
ledging to her losses and embarrassments in business, which 
had greatly diminished his income. To his representations 
on this subject, she had replied at first with vague promises 
of compliance at a future time ; not doubting, that before 
that time arrived, some lucky turn of affairs would render 
it no longer necessary ; — but he had of late become so 
urgent, that she had actually appointed a period at which 
she would consent to give up her carriage and horses, dis- 
miss some of her servants, and even retire into the country, 
if he wished it. This period was the coming spring. 
“ Let me give the girls the benefit of this winter in society,” 
she said to her husband ; to herself she added, “ If properly 
influenced, Grace can hardly fail to marry the Marquis de 
Villeneuve, now that Walter has deserted her ; and if she 
do, I will go abroad with her and avoid all these mortifying 
changes. They will seem perfectly right, and matters of 
course, when Mr. Elliot is left alone ; and by the time I 
return, he may be able again to resume our present style, 
or, at least, the alteration in our circumstances will have 
passed out of people’s minds.” 


160 


TWO LIVES . OR, 


Here, it will be observed, all rested on Grace being 
properly influenced, and to this proper influence she soon 
found that Isabel’s presence opposed an almost resistless 
obstacle. One glance of Isabel’s calm, penetrating eye, 
had more than once disconcerted her in the execution of 
her best-laid schemes ; while, with Grace, her whole power 
was used to foster feelings and arouse resolutions opposed 
to those which Mrs. Elliot desired to promote. When 
Grace, in one of her varying moods, burst into passionate 
reproaches of Walter Stuart’s harshness and cruelty, and 
Mrs. Elliot would have aggravated her resentment and 
aroused her pride, in order through that pride to lead her 
to another, Isabel’s voice was uttering the nobler sentiment, 
“ Convict him of injustice, dear Grace, by proving your- 
self worthy of him;” or, “If he have been unjust to you, 
Grace, you may feel the fuller assurance that he will re- 
turn to you. His is too noble a nature to persist in in- 
justice.” 

The time came when Grace too felt Isabel’s presence 
as a fetter ; when, hopeless of retrieving the past and im- 
patient of the present, she would have sought new objects 
of interest, and might have found a new impulse to life in 
the gratification of resentment, and consolation in the tri- 
umphs of vanity ; and from these materials she might have 
formed for herself a future ; but without suspecting the 
existence of such designs, Isabel rebuked them in the 
germ. Such low and worldly aims could not live in her 
presence, or, at least, she seemed so unconscious of their 
existence, she gave to Grace such deep and earnest sym- 
pathy on the supposition of her entertaining feelings so 
inconsistent with them, that to acknowledge them, or act 
on them, required a degree of moral courage and self- 
reliance greater than Grace could command. 

Ever drawing her motives from without, acting for and 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


161 


from others, Grace now found herself controlled by two 
opposing influences. It was as if two diverse spirits alter- 
nately ruled her life. Isabel would have had her look 
rather at her own faults, than at those of others in the past, 
and seek strength and peace for the future, not on earth, 
but in Heaven ; in the development of those higher prin- 
ciples of her nature, connecting her with the eternal and 
the unchanging. Mrs. Elliot, on the contrary, would have 
stiengthened her resentment, as we have already said, that 
she might use it for the promotion of her own purposes, 
and, acquainted herself with no other sources of joy than 
those of earth, she would have had Grace seek in the light 
bubbles floating on the fountains of pleasure or of vanity, 
compensation for the cup of happy love which had been 
dashed from her lips. 

Poor Grace ! miserable indeed was this portion of her 
life. Her sweet dream of life broken ; the love which 
had brightened and ennobled her existence changed into 
its shadow and its bitterest mortification — and changed by 
her own act — well might she grow pale, and thin, and fret- 
ful in spirit, awakening in her friends the deepest anxiety, 
and at length drawing from Mr. Elliot’s family physician 
the advice that she should spend the winter in a warmer 
climate. For a week before this advice was given, Grace 
had not left her room. Twice since her separation from 
Walter Stuart she had suddenly roused herself to the de- 
termination to appear again in society, and play her part 
there gayly — bravely. This determination had been on 
both occasions the result of a conversation with her aunt, 
in which Mrs. Elliot had expressed strongly the grief and 
humiliation she felt in having others regard her niece, the 
niece in whose beauty and accomplishments she felt so 
much pride, as the victim of slighted love. 

“ Depend upon it, dear Grace, however we may sympa- 
14 * 


162 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


thize with such persons in a novel or a play, they only 
inspire contempt and derision in real life.” 

To Grace no more efficacious argument could have been 
addressed, and she accordingly exerted herself, as we have 
already said ; went to a dashing party, danced gayly — 
more gayly than ever before, though she refused all solici- 
tation to waltz — talked, laughed, sang ; who would have 
believed that fever lent such unwonted brilliancy to her 
eye and cheek, or that gay words and gayer laugh came 
from a breaking heart? Each of these efforts had cost 
ner a week of low, nervous fever, during the continuance 
of which she wept silently and inconsolably, rejected al- 
most all food, and turned impatiently away from every 
expression of sympathy and kindness. Her spirit was 
ever crying from its inmost depths to God, “ Thou hast 
taken away my idols, and what have I more !” During 
all this time, Mrs. Stuart had been refused admittance to 
her. She had not seen her since the day that she left 
Walter Stuart’s letter in her hand, till the evening of that 
on which she learned the advice of her physician respect- 
ing her removal south, when Grace sent Isabel to her to 
request that she would visit her. Mrs. Stuart obeyed the 
summons without delay, and found Grace wrapped in a 
dressing-gown and seated by the fire, in hei chamber 
alone. It was hard, when looking at those heavy eyes 
and that pale face, to remember any thing but her suffer- 
ings, and as Mrs. Stuart bent over her, and pressed her 
lips to her forehead, a tear fell upon her cheek. 

“You weep for me!” exclaimed Grace, resting her 
head caressingly on the bosom of her friend, and turning 
her languid eyes up to hers. “ You pity me !” 

“ Can you doubt, Grace, that I have felt deeply, ten- 
derly, for all your sufferings ?” 

“Does he feel for them too? Oh! do not turn away 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


163 


from me without answering. It is the one thing in life 1 
desire to know. I have tried to harden myself against 
him ; I have tried to find support in my pride : but it can- 
not be, I cannot live without his love. Tell him so ; tell 
him I wait only a word from him, and that word will be 
life or death.” 

It was impossible for Mrs. Stuart to resist such plead- 
ings, and she promised to w r rite to her son. The promise 
left Grace tranquillized, almost happy ; and Isabel, when 
she again entered the room, rejoiced at the gentler expres- 
sion of her cousin’s face. 

“ Good-night, dear Bella,” whispered Grace, as she laid 
her head upon her pillow ; “ I can love you to-night, and I 
can pray, for I hope once more.” 

Isabel kissed her, but a dread fell on her, that the hope 
would never be realized, which was thus put in the place 
of God. 

Mrs. Stuart wrote, and Grace counted the days, the 
hours, till an answer could arrive. None came. Hour 
crept after hour, day after day, till another week had 
passed, and during all that time, except when at rare 
intervals sleep brought to her the blessing of forgetful- 
ness, every passing second fell on the heart of Grace like 
the drop of water on the rock. 

“ His heart is of flint ; he knows neither love nor pity,” 
she cried in her agony. 

“ God both loves and pities you, dearest ; trust Him, 
and He will yet bring you joy,” whispered the soft voice 
of Isabel. 

“ How call He, when He has taken- Mm, from me?” 
questioned the impatient heart of Grace. 

“Will you not write again?” she asked, pleadingly, of 
Mrs. Stuart. 

“ I will, Grace,” she replied ; and she wrote, but the 


164 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


tone in which she assented now inspired neither tranquillity 
nor hope, for Mrs. Stuart herself doubted whether Captain 
Stuart’s silence was not the expression of his inflexible 
determination. The woman and the mother were at 
variance in her heart. At one time she regretted not 
having complied with his urgent entreaty, that no appeal 
should be made to him on this subject. She felt that his 
mother should have been the last to harrow his heart, when 
assured that she could neither shake his convictions, nor 
restore the confidence necessary to his peace. But the 
next hour, perhaps the next minute, the broken-spirited 
Grace would stand before her in all her hopeless desolation, 
and she would lament the iron nature of man, against 
which the tender heart of woman so often casts itself, only 
to be bruised and crushed. 

A week after Mrs. Stuart’s second letter had been sent, 
Mrs. Elliot said to Grace, that she had waited in silence 
the result of these two applications to Captain Stuart, 
though she had been far from approving them — she had 
waited in silence, but not in indifference. She hoped, for 
the honor of woman, that Grace did not intend again to 
lay herself humbly at the feet of one, who, it was but too 
evident, contemned her* 

“ Captain Stuart may have been ill or absent,” suggested 
Isabel. How Grace blessed her for the suggestion ! But 
Mrs. Elliot permitted her not long to retain the ray of 
comfort it had given. 

“ Such a possibility had, I acknowledge, presented itself 
to my mind,” she said, “ and determined not to judge him 
hastily, I wrote to Marion, to inquire into the facts ; he re- 
plied, that W alter had left the fort on a visit to Mr. Fal- 
coner, but as this was only a few miles off, his letters were 
sent to him by a trusty hand as soon as they arrived. 
Marion adds — ” and here Mrs. Elliot took his letter from 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


165 


her reticule, and read from it, “Walter, I am sure, would 
have sent for me if he had been ill, yet to render as- 
surance doubly sure on this subject, I would have ridden 
over to Mr. Falconer’s, had I not received your letter just 
as I was preparing to set out on an excursion to Washing- 
ton with Miss Duncan and her father. I think, that with- 
out taking that trouble, > can give you the key to all that 
seems enigmatical in this affair. Walter has decided 
against Grace, and he does not mean to reconsider his de- 
cision. I may say with some confidence that this is the 
case, because when he first returned from New York, with 
a sterner air than I ever knew him assume before — and 
Heaven knows my follies have sometimes made him stern 
enough — he requested me — the request sounded very like 
a command — never to name Grace to him on any occasion 
or under any pretext.” 

A low, gasping sound interrupted Mrs. Elliot’s reading. 
She turned to Grace, from whom it proceeded, and saw such 
an expression of agony in her face, that, for an instant, her 
heart smote her. 

“ Pardon me, dear Grace,” she said, with more than her 
usual tenderness of manner, “ I do not willingly give you 
pain, but I feel that you ought to understand this as well 
as everybody else does. I suspect there are few of your 
acquaintances in this city, where birds of the air seem 
ever ready to publish one’s very thoughts, who do not know 
that you have offended Captain Stuart so deeply, that though 
you have twice implored his forgiveness, you have im- 
plored in vain.” 

“ That cannot be said with truth,” interposed Isabel ; 
“ and how can any one out of our own little circle know 
any thing of Captain Stuart’s having been written to ?” 

“ I cannot say how they can know, but I am sure they 
do know, and they who have /elt jealous of Grace’s sue* 


166 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


cess, now evidently rejoice in her disgrace. Can you 
wonder, , Grace, that I long to have you appear again, to 
silence their insolent sneers, and show that you can still 
triumph over them ? Come now, rouse yourself, and 
promise me that. if I bring some of these, people here to- 
morrow evening, you will make your appearance, and 
show them that you are still their queen.” A faint smile 
rose to the pale lips of Grace, and Mrs. Elliot pressed her 
point with more courage. “ This can offend no one , 
promise me then, will you ?” 

“ I will try.” 

“ That is enough ; if you try, you will succeed.” 

The company was assembled, and Grace, her heart em. 
bittered and her pride inflamed by another day of vain ex- 
pectation, appeared among them. The Marquis de Vil- 
leneuve too was there, and never had his devotion to her 
been more apparent. Every word, every look from him 
was sweet incense to her wounded pride, and Grace ac- 
cepted the incense. Blame her not, ye who have never 
known what it was to apprehend “the world’s dread 
laugh.” Her fears excited by Mrs. Elliot’s exaggerating 
reports, she had entered the room trembling at anticipated 
mortification, and he had given her triumph ; for he was 
still the Marquis, and his smile still conferred distinction. 
If she walked, his arm supported her ; if she sat, he stood 
beside her, conversing now in a tone of badinage, now 
with a shade of more earnest feeling. He was amusing 
her with an account of the gayeties that were promised for 
the winter, when Mrs. Elliot exclaimed, “ Ah, monsieur ! 
that is a feast of Tantalus to Miss Elliot and me. We 
can enjoy none of those gayeties, for we are condemned to 
pass the winter in Georgia.” 

“ In Georgia ! Ah ! what a sad winter we shall have ! 
I can never stand it. I shall go back to France, unless 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


167 


you will permit me to visit you in Georgia; will you?” 
he asked of Mrs. Elliot. 

“ You must ask that of Miss Elliot. She is the lady 
Chatelaine ; for we are going to her house.” 

“ Will you permit me to claim your hospitality?” he 
said, turning to Grace. 

She felt that many eyes were upon her, and her cheeks 
flushed half with timidity, half with triumph over the envy 
of those who had sneered at her sorrow, as she answered, 
“ My aunt’s friends will always be welcome in my home ; 
if we go to Georgia, we shall be happy to see you there.” 

“ I cannot thank you here,” he murmured, bending low 
to her; then rising, said smilingly, “the lady Chatelaine 
speaks already in the queenly style — we — ” 

One week after this conversation, Mrs. Elliot and Grace 
set out for Georgia. The season had been unusually mild, 
the travelling was still good, and they went in their own 
carriage, attended by the Marquis de Villeneuve in an- 
other. 

On the evening in which his escort was offered and ac- 
cepted, Isabel followed Grace to her room, and with a man- 
ner full of grave, earnest tenderness, said, “ May I say a 
few words to you to-night, Grace, or — you look weary — 
would you rather hear me to-morrow ?” 

“ Oh ! pray, Isabel, say to-night all you have to say. I 
can stand any thing better than a disagreeable anticipa- 
tion.” 

“ Why should you apprehend any thing disagreeable 
from me, dear Grace ?” 

“ And why not from you as well as from others ? All 
grow cold to me, why should not you ?” 

“ Because our early home, with its tender memories, lias 
woven a bond not easily broken.” 

“ Then it is not for me you care ?” 


168 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


“ Do not let sorrow make you captious, Grace ; what- 
ever be the foundation of my tenderness, be assured, I 
love you dearly, and I come to pray you for that love’s 
sake, not to let pique lead you into doing what you will, I 
fear, have reason to repent.”' 

“ Speak out, Isabel, and say at once in what you think 
me wrong.” 

“ I will, Grace ; it will be painful to me to offend or 
grieve you, but I must not think of that when the peace of 
your life is at stake. I fear the encouragement you are 
giving to the Marquis de Villeneuve will put the seal to 
your unhappiness. There are men, perhaps, whom the 
appearance of a rival would recall, but Walter is not — ” 

“ Isabel ! How can you be so cruel as to name him ? 
Ah ! if you had known what it is to love, to give up your 
whole being to another, — to think, to feel, to speak, to act 
only as he would have you, — and then, to find yourself 
cast off as a worthless thing, — made the world’s mock. — 
Oh, Isabel ! how could you remind me of that which it 
must be the effort of my life to forget, and to make others 
forget ?” 

“ Grace, forgive me',” said Isabel, throwing her arms 
around her cousin ; “ I knew that I must give you pain, but 
it is only as a step to comfort. Do not despair, dearest ; 
have confidence still in Walter.” Grace made a gesture 
of impatience, and endeavored to release herself from Isa- 
bel’s embrace. “ Then, Grace, if that be impossible, have 
confidence in yourself — at least, have confidence in God. 
Believe me, there is in Him comfort even for this sorrow, 
only live for the truth and give up all this false show, this 
terrible struggle to seem happy with a breaking heart.” 

“ Isabel, I pray you, leave me in peace. Peace — ” she 
repeated with a bitter smile ; leave? me to such peace as 
I can find ; we are so different that we cannot judge of 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


169 


happiness for each other. I cannot live and know myself 
the object of ridicule and contempt. I think/’ she added 
in a colder tone, “ that no one can blame me for endeavor 
ing to make the most of the future, instead of repining for 
the past ; nor should I think you could regard it as very ex- 
traordinary that I find some balm for my wounded pride in 
those attentions of the Marquis de Villeneuve, which must 
show to all, that, however I may be contemned by an- 
other — ” here the lip of Grace quivered with ill-suppressed 
emotion, — “ he waits but a look from me to offer me the 
brilliant position it is in his power to bestow.” 

“ Ah, Grace ! but think how valueless this position 
would — ” 

“ If you think it so, Isabel, pray keep the opinion to 
yourself. I know no good that can result from making 
me undervalue the fragments of enjoyment that are left to 
*ne. I must bid you good-night, now, for I am very weary, 
and I must rise early to-morrow, as I have promised to go 
with Aunt Elliot and the Marquis to Inman’s at ten o’clock. 
He says that if I can give him two or three sittings before 
I go away, he will finish my portrait before I return.” 

And thus did Grace put away from her the true heart 
which wnuld still have strengthened her in the right. 
Isabel saw her depart from New York with many a sad 
foreboding, and she was rejoiced when the evening of that 
day of departure came, to receive a visit from Mrs. Stuart, 
who likewise found it easier to endure her anxieties for 
Walter and her sorrow for Grace in a friend’s company, 
than alone. Each exerting herself for the other’s sake, 
they gave such a cheerful aspect to the room in which they 
sat, that they wiled Mr. Elliot from the calculation of that 
day’s enterprise in stocks and its effect on the business of 
o-morrow, to spend another, and yet another hour in chat 
with them. About eight o’clock the sudden drawing up ol 
15 


170 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


a carriage at iheir door, caused as sudden a pause in their 
conversation. It would scarcely have been noticed at an- 
other time ; but now, two of the party at least, were in 
that excited state in which every thing unexpected alarms, 
The door-bell rang, and Mrs. Stuart and Isabel listened 
with the most intense anxiety for the next sound. Heavy 
steps approached the parlor in which they sat, the door was 
flung open, and Mrs. Stuart started forward to greet Wal- 
ter, while Isabel, mute and still with overpowering emotion, 
could only see his supporter, Mr. Falconer. Mr. Elliot 
hastened to offer to Mr. Falconer the greetings which only 
he was composed enough to give, while Walter Stuart, 
pale and feeble, almost tottered to his mother’s arms, ex- 
claiming as he reached them, “ Mother, you see the reason 
I have not answered your letters, I have been too ill even 
to read them till four days ago ; I have travelled night and 
day — but tell me of Grace. How is she, mother ?” 

“ Miss Elliot is better, my son.” 

“ God be thanked for that ! I scarcely deserved such 
mercy, who had been so unmerciful in my judgment of 
her ; but now let me see her, mother — does she still keep 
her room ?” 

“You are too feeble and too much fatigued to-night, 
Walter, to endure any agitation, wait till you have had 
one night of quiet rest.” 

“ I can have no quiet rest till I have seen her, mother. 
Think what I have made her suffer.” 

Mrs. Stuart felt that the truth must be told, yet, as she 
pressed Walter’s fevered hand and looked into his pallid 
face, she dreaded to reveal it. He read her embarrass- 
ment in her face, and exclaimed, “ Mother, you are con* 
cealing something from me then turning to Isabel, 
he asked with startling abruptness, “Isabel, is Grace 
dead ?” 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


171 


Mr. Elliot, engaged with Mr. Falconer, had heard little 
of what passed between Captain Stuart and his mother, but 
that thrilling question aroused his attention. He knew 
nothing of the necessity of caution in his communications ; 
for, though aware of some coolness having existed between 
Walter and Grace, he had supposed it only the result of a 
lover’s quarrel, proceeding, as Mrs. Elliot had told him, 
from some jealous freak in Walter, and when Grace again 
appeared in society and resumed her usual habits, he con- 
cluded that the affair had ended as such affairs generally 
do, in reconciliation. 

“ Grace dead !” he exclaimed. “ What could make you 
fancy any thing so terrible, Walter 1 I do not think her 
life has ever been in danger, and when she left us this 
morning, she looked almost as well as ever.” 

“ Left — this morning — where has she gone then V 3 

“ Did you not know the physicians had advised her 
spending this winter in Georgia ? I really think myself it 
was very unnecessary, but I never oppose physicians ; so, 
she and her aunt set out this morning.” 

“ Set out — how ?” 

“ By land ; they went m their own carriage. The roads 
are said to be in very good condition for the season ; still, 
I should hardly have consented to their going in this way, 
if the Marquis de ^illeneuve had not kindly offered to ac- 
company them. He is an idle man, you know, and can go 
where he will.” 

Had Mrs. Stuart even desired to interrupt this conversa- 
tion, she must have found it difficult to do so from the ra- 
pidity with which question and answer had followed each 
other ; but, in truth, she knew not whether most to regret 
or rejoice that Mr. Elliot was thus communicating to Wal- 
ter that which must be made known to him, and which she 
would have experienced such pain in telling. She waited 


172 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


the result therefore in trembling silence, with eyes in 
which a mother’s anxious heart was mirrored, fastened on 
the face of her son. At the name of the Marquis de Vil- 
leneuve, she saw his brow contract into a frown, and the 
color mount suddenly into his sallow cheek. The next 
instant he looked towards her, and her heart throbbed 
painfully, as, for the first time in his life, she read re- 
proach in his glance. Mr. Falconer saw what was passing 
in the heart of his friend, and he knew too, better than any 
one there, how dangerous all excitement was in his present 
condition. 

“Mrs. Stuart,” he said, “the carriage in which we 
came is waiting, and I think the wisest thing Captain 
Stuart can do is to enter . it and return home with you. 
He needs rest, for we have, as he tells you, travelled night 
and day.” 

“ You will remain with us, I hope, Mr. Falconer,” said 
Mr. Elliot. 

“ I thank you, sir, but I have come at present only as 
my friend’s nurse, and if Mrs. Stuart can accommodate 
me—” 

“To say that it will give me great pleasure to do so, is 
but a cold expression of my feelings,” Mrs. Stuart replied, 
holding out her hand to him in the friendly greeting 
which in her surprise and excitement she had not before 
offered. 

Captain Stuart yielded without a word to the guidance 
of his mother and friend, and in a few minutes Isabel and 
Mr. Elliot were left alone. He would have drawn her 
into conversation respecting W alter and Grace, whose re- 
lations began to appear to him in a somewhat doubtful 
light, but her answers were so vague and unsatisfactory, 
that he soon returned to his calculations, and left her free 
to think — to recall the one thrilling glance in which Ins 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


173 


eyes had met hers — the few simple words of greeting 
which he had spoken, and to ask herself again and again 
that soul-thrilling question, “ Does he love me still ?” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“ She hath a tear for pity, and a hand 
Open as day to melting charity.” 

King Henry IV 

First Angel . — “ Let me approach to breathe away 

This dust o’ the heart with holy air !” 

Second Angel . — “ Stand off ! She sleeps and did not pray.” 

First Angel . — “ Did none pray for her ?” 

E. B. Barrett. 

On arriving at his mother’s, Walter Stuart retired im- 
mediately to his own apartment, declining any attendance, 
and though more than once that night Mrs. Stuart crept 
softly to his door to listen for some sound that might en- 
courage her to enter, none was heard. The next morning 
he stood, at early dawn, by Mr. Falconer’s bedside, to in- 
quire if he were willing to set out that day with him on 
his return to Virginia. Observing some hesitation in his 
friend’s manner of replying to. the question, he said quickly, 
“ If you have any desire to remain longer, now that you 
are here, Falconer, do not hurry away on my account ; I 
must return to my duties, but I am now quite strong enough 
to take care of myself.” 

“ No, no, Stuart, I was only surprised by this proposal 
of sudden departure. I will be ready for you in half an 
hour.” 


15 * 


174 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


“ We can afford an hour. My mother will give us 
some breakfast before we set out.” 

Captain Stuart’s manner was perfectly calm, but there 
was a coldness, a hardness about it, which Mr. Falconer 
had never seen in it before. The same characteristics 
were evident to his mother, as he met her tender greeting. 
She would in former times have remonstrated against his 
resolution of hurrying away so immediately, but now she 
not only felt remonstrance to be useless — there was some- 
thing about him which made her feel it to be impossible. 
Yet he was not unkind. He inquired for his young bro- 
thers, and left for each of them a present in money ; but 
expressed no desire to see them. He asked respecting the 
completion of some pecuniary arrangements to which he 
had advised his mother when he last saw her. But in all 
this there was no softening of the countenance, no beaming 
of the eye ; he looked a statue, — he spoke, he moved an 
automaton. 

“ Will you present my respects to Mr. Elliot — and — 
Miss Douglass, and say to them that I regret not being able 
to see them again,” said Mr. Falconer to Mrs. Stuart at 
parting. There was a slight delay, a momentary hesita- 
tion, as if he would have added something more, but then, 
turning abruptly away, he walked with a quicker step 
than usual to the carriage. He had sat with Mrs. Stuart, 
the previous evening, for some time after W alter had with- 
drawn to his own room. They had conversed of Grace 
Elliot, of her early characteristics, and of the unfortunate 
influence which Mrs. Elliot’s worldly and vain nature had 
exercised over her. 

“ She seems to have no fixed principle, but the desire to 
please ; she will be through life, probably, just wha,t her 
companions make her,” said Mr. Falconer, — then, after a 
moment’s pause, with an effort which Mrs. Stuart little 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


175 


suspected, he added, “ What different results the same ed- 
ucation has produced in the two cousins !” 

“ Different indeed,” said Mrs. Stuart ; “ but I know not 
that we can ever speak of two persons as having had the 
same education. Things alike in themselves will appear 
so differently to minds occupying different positions, and 
when did two minds ever occupy precisely the same po- 
sition ? Besides, there are circumstances in the life of 
each controlled by no human agency, often visible to no 
human eye, whose effect on character is more deep and 
enduring than that of all the ostensible means of education.” 

She paused, and Mr. Falconer did not interrupt the 
silence. He seemed sunk in revery, from which, after 
some minutes, he roused himself suddenly to say, “ It was 
in this parlor that I first met Miss Douglass. It seemed to 
me, in the momentary view I had of her this evening, that 
she was greatly changed since that time.” 

“ How changed ?” asked Mrs. Stuart. 

“ I have not answered that question satisfactorily to my- 
self. She has become paler and thinner, but the change 
to which I allude seemed deeper, more important than this.” 

“ You are right ; a great change has passed over her. 
Isabel left me, the last spring, a lovely child, I had well- 
nigh said ; for with high principles and a true and lofty 
faith which she seemed to have imbibed, even in her earli- 
est girlhood, she had a child’s joyous, confiding nature ; 
all persons and things were to her just what they professed 
to be, aad all her bright dreams were coming realities. I 
visited her in the summer — ” 

“ Soon after I left you ?” asked Mr. Falconer, who was 
istening with intensest interest. 

‘‘Yes, very soon, and I found her joyless, almost hope* 
ess.” 

“ Did she tell you why ?” he inquired, quickly. 


176 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


“No,” answered Mrs. Stuart with a smile, “had there 
been any confidence on the subject, I should not have felt 
myself at. liberty to speak so freely, but I am only giving 
you my impressions in exchange for yours.” 

“ And may I ask to what you attributed this condition 
of mind?” 

“ If you do, I shall find it difficult to answer. It could 
have proceeded from no trifling cause, for it has remodelled 
her whole being ; she is a child no more. No longer con- 
tented with the surface, she looks into the heart of things. 
Shows are but shows to her, and dreams but dreams.” 

“ I hope that with her universal trust, she has not lost 
that loving spirit which seemed to brighten whatever it 
looked upon, that suffering has not made her less benev- 
olent.” 

“ It has not. Her love is as expansive and even more 
active now than formerly, but it is of a somewhat different 
character. She sees apparently less to admire and more 
to pity in the world, and not only to pity, but to succor. 
This winter she has spent more of her time and fortune 
in the service of the poor than in her own pleasures, and 
that so unostentatiously, that I doubt whether any one but 
myself has a suspicion of her visits to the hovels and gar- 
rets of the suffering poor, or surmises why her dress is less 
varied and more simple than of old.” 

“In such interests she has doubtless found consola. 
tion ?” 

“ She has found more, she has found a noble serenity. 
I do not think she has forgotten her cause of sorrow what- 
ever it were. I fear she is not happy, in the usual sense 
of that word ; but she has learned, as Carlyle expresses 
it, to do without happiness, and instead thereof she has 
found blessedness.” 

Mr. Falconer had risen from his seat before Mrs. Stuart 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


177 


concluded, and was walking to and fro ; suddenly he stood 
still before her and said, “ I hope you believe me superior 
to an impertinent curiosity, and even that you will con- 
tinue to believe so in spite of the question I am going to 
ask.” He paused, and it was with an embarrassment which 
he could not conceal that he resumed, “ Has it ever oc- 
curred to you that Miss Douglass was attached — was par- 
ticularly interested in your son ?” 

“In Walter!” exclaimed Mrs. Stuart w r ith surprise, 
“ never, I am assured ; she has never regarded him except 
as a friend.” 

Mr. Falconer resumed his walk ; after two or three turns 
he drew near her again with a countenance that seemed to 
prelude another question, but the entrance of one of Mrs. 
Stuart’s younger sons interrupted the conversation, and he 
had no opportunity of renewing it. 

The serenity for which Mrs. Stuart had given Isabel 
credit was not proof against the disappointment she ex- 
perienced when informed in the course of the next morn- 
ing that these guests of a night were already on their way 
to Virginia. Poor Miss Burns, who lived in a little back 
attic, and, amidst much physical suffering, contrived to sup. 
port herself, so far as she was supported, by her needle* 
received a visit this day which she had not expected, for 
Isabel had learned the noble alchemy of transmuting her 
sorrow into blessings to others, and her mercy ever de- 
scended again, “ dropping like the gentle rain of heaven,” 
upon her own thirsty heart. To draw her still more out 
of herself, there arose about this time unanticipated claims 
upon her sympathy within her owrj home. 

Mr.' Elliot’s financial difficulties had increased till each 
successive movement which he made in business was but 
the desperate attempt of the unsuccessful gamester, risk- 
ing what he can ill afford to lose* with the hope of re- 


178 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


trieving what has been already swept from him. The 
stock speculations in which he had of late largely engaged 
were in truth only a legalized system of gambling, subject 
to all the fluctuations of fortune that make a faro table so 
exciting, and their influence on his health, temper, and 
spirits become daily more perceptible. 

Isabel had never greatly honored her uncle. He lacked 
that firmness and energy which are essential in securing 
any high appreciation from a nature like hers. But she 
loved him for his kindly, affectionate heart, for his gentle- 
ness of nature, and yet more, for that indefinable some- 
thing in look and tone which marked his connection with 
the guardians of her early life, and reminded her ever that 
he was of one family with her own indistinctly yet tenderly 
remembered mother. 

As Mr. Elliot left his home immediately after breakfast 
and rarely returned to it before night, Isabel saw little of 
him, but that little was sufficient to inspire her with an 
apprehension that some present or some anticipated ill was 
pressing heavily upon the forces of his life. The evident 
impatience with which he received any inquiry into his 
causes of suffering, however guarded and delicate, and the 
honorable feeling which forbade her to reveal to another 
that which he would not permit her to express to himself, 
compelled her to brood over this apprehension in silence, 
confining it to her own bosom and thus increasing its power. 
The newspaper was always Mr. Elliot’s companion at 
breakfast, and as he sat one morning with his coffee un- 
tasted at his side while he searched its columns with an 
eager and hurried eye, Isabel was occupied in reading the 
changes which had lately passed over him, and vainly im- 
agining what could thus in a few short weeks have blanched 
his hair, sunken his cheeks, and stolen from his form its 
elastic vigor. Suddenly he looked up, and their eyes met. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


179 


The tears that had gathered in hers were not needed to 
evince the deep pity of her soul — it spoke in her glance. 
The color flushed to Mr. Elliot’s brow, and he turned im- 
patiently away. Isabel’s was a courageous soul, and she 
never proved it more than by pressing into her uncle’s con- 
fidence at that moment. Laying her hand upon his arm 
she said gently, “ Do not be angry with me, dear uncle, for 
having seen that you are disturbed, and for wishing to know 
why it is.” 

“ As to my disturbance, Isabel, it is no more than every 
man of business feels at times, and it would be useless 
talking to you of its cause, for a woman can never be made 
to understand any thing about business.” 

“ Perhaps they would understand more about it, if men 
would talk more frequently to them of it. Come now, 
dear uncle, Aunt Elliot invested me with all her privi- 
leges ; and one of them — the most valued one, I doubt 
not — is to sooth your sadness, to hear and sympathize with 
all your cares. She shall not be defrauded of her prerog- 
atives in my person.” 

“ Your aunt Elliot l Do you suppose I should ever speak 
to her of business ?” 

“ Perhaps she has not a taste for business, but I have 
decidedly, so I will play Aunt Elliot with a difference .” 

It was hard to preserve this playful tone, for his brow 
grew more severe, his tones more impatient every instant, 
but Isabel smiled on, though her hands grew cold and her 
heart beat faster with the effort. To her last observation 
he replied, “ You are very persevering, Isabel, but since 
you have such a taste for business, it is a pity it should not 
be gratified, by hearing what will soon be known to every- 
body — that l am a ruined man — ruined , mark, — that I have 
raised money, — all that they are worth, more than they 
would bring, — on my place in the country, on my house 


180 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


in town, on my horses and carriage, on my furniture, on 
the very plate which you were polishing so carefully just 
now ; that this money is all gone, that I and you, and all 
of us, are living upon the property of my creditors ; and, 
if this is not enough to account for my disturbance , you 
may add to it that I see in that paper,” and he struck it 
passionately on the table, “ how I might in a little time re- 
cover again all I have lost, and I must let the chance go by 
for want of the few paltry hundreds which six months ago 
I would have spent upon a bauble of no more real value 
than a child’s toy. Is that reason enough, think you, for 
disturbance ?” 

What a wonderful power of developing all the force that 
is in a man have such trials ! Mr. Elliot had never evinced 
so much energy in all his life together as he did at that 
moment. He turned his eyes almost fiercely upon Isabel 
in his concluding question. She met his glance firmly, 
yet gently, and replied, “ Reason enough at least, dear 
uncle, why you should reveal your difficulties to a friend, 
and especially to one who may be able to aid you. Did 
you not tell me some weeks ago, that you had placed five 
thousand dollars in bank for me ? the money received 
from the sale of the house in Washington-street, I mean,” 
she added observing a bewildered expression in Mr. Elliot’s 
eyes. 

“ Well ! what of that V 

“ That if that five thousand can win back what you have 
lost, can give me back my own dear, kind, cheerful uncle 
again, it will confer more happiness than ever five thou- 
sand dollars did in the world before.” 

Isabel had come quite near her uncle, and was standing 
with her arm around his neck, and her face turned lovingly 
up to his. He had anticipated blame and reproach in looks 
if not in words ; he had been hopeless, and here were love 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


181 


and hope. Isabel felt already repaid for her five thousand 
dollars, when she caught the flash of joy that irradiated 
his whole face for an instant. It was but an instant, and 
drawing her closely to his bosom, he suffered his head to 
fall on her shoulder, and wept there. But man weeps not 
long. A moment he gives to this silent expression of feel- 
ing, and the rest of the day to action. Happy for him 
that it is thus ! 

Mr. Elliot soon raised his head, and kissing Isabel’s 
cheek, said, “You are a good girl, Isabel, a noble girl, and 
I thank you from my soul, but I do not know about taking 
your offer. If I should be mistaken in my judgment, — and 
though that seems to me impossible, I may be, — if I should 
lose this venture too, I have no means of repaying you.” 

“ Do not speak to me thus, my uncle. Have I not 
eaten of ydur bread, and drunk of your cup, and been 
unto you as a daughter ? I have no father if you put me 
away from your heart and home, and I feel that you do 
this, when you refuse to exercise a father’s right over all 
that I have. Besides,” she added, making an effort to 
smile again and to speak more lightly, “ have not I an 
interest in preserving the home I love, and the plate I 
have polished, and if we should fail in our attempt to do 
so, have we not fifteen thousand dollars left to be happy on 
in an humblerhome ? You must not refuse me, my uncle, 
if you would not have me feel that I am an alien to you, 
not one of your family.” 

It is easy to persuade, where we have the heart on our 
side, and Mr. Elliot appeared that day in Wall-street with 
a check for five thousand dollars in his pocket, and a lighter 
heart in his bosom than he had long had. 

About this time letters were received from Mrs. Elliot 
and Grace, which occasioned no little surprise. They 
were in Washington, and as it was the height of the sea« 
16 


182 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


son there, they found themselves so well entertained, that 
they had resolved to remain a fortnight or perhaps three 
weeks. The fortnight had nearly passed away, when a 
second letter arrived from Mrs. Elliot, in whicn she wrote 
as follows : — 

“ Grace has entirely recovered her looks, and though 
her spirits are still somewhat unequal, she is gayer at 
times than I have ever seen her. She can hardly help being 
pleased, for wherever she goes admirers throng around 
her. Our New York members, — I mean those from t/ie 
city, some of whom I have long known, — have been very 
polite, but we needed nothing more than our introduction 
by the Marquis to the French Minister and his lady, to 
give us the entree to the best society here. Monsieur and 
Madame Bourdier unite great personal popularity to their 
commanding position, and whether for De Villeneuve’s 
sake or for our own, they have quite devoted themselves 
to us. I wish you could have seen Grace the evening of 
our first introduction to the White House. Her dark maroon- 
colored velvet dress contrasted splendidly with her fair 
complexion and pearl ornaments. Monsieur Bourdier 
handed her in, and I can assure you she created no slight 
sensation. Even the President’s grave face lighted up 
with an unusual expression of pleasure as he greeted 
her, and Madame Bourdier whispered to me, ‘ Ah, madame ! 
if I could only present your charming niece at our court.’ 

“We shall have some idea this evening of Parisian en- 
tertainments, for Madame gives a fite which the Marquis 
says is to be quite a la Parisienne. I have the most ex- 
quisite lace dress for Grace. It has just occurred to me 
to keep my letter until to-morrow and give you some de- 
scription of our evening.” 

The next morning Mrs. Elliot added the following post- 
script : — 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


183 


“ It is impossible — with a dull, heavy headache, doubly 
impossible — to give you any just idea of our entertain- 
ment. It transported one back to the times of magic and 
Haroun Alraschid. Aladdin’s lamp seemed a necessary 
appendage to people who could convert their rooms into 
orange and myrtle groves, and could entertain their guests 
with a lottery, in which though there might be more bon- 
bons than bijouterie, there were no absolute blanks. 
Nothing less than the philosopher’s stone could have sup- 
plied to all, such prizes as fell to Grace and to me. Mine 
was a diamond ring, and hers the most beautiful bracelet 
I ever beheld, formed of exquisite cameos. On examining 
it, I perceived underneath the clasp a cipher, which I re- 
quested Madame Bourdier to explain to me. ‘ It is the 
coronet of a Marquise, surmounting the arms of the De Vil- 
leneuves,’ said she. Grace heard her, and seemed for a 
moment ready to faint. She had taken the bracelet from 
me, before Madame Bourdier spoke, and now, in her agita- 
tion, it fell — it almost seemed as if she flung it — on the 
floor. The Marquis sprang forward, and picking it up 
knelt gracefully on one knee, and entreated to be permitted 
to clasp it on the arm of the fair owner. I believe every 
one regarded it as a public declaration of his devotion. 
Grace cast down her eyes with a sort of bashful pride, 
which was really lovely, and, almost to my surprise, held 
out her hand to him. She says it was only because she 
was too much confused to know what she did, but I am 
sure every one considered it as a very gracious acceptance 
of his homage. That the Marquis thought it so, none 
could doubt who saw his proud, happy look. He raised 
her frand to his lips before relinquishing it. ‘ Monsieur 
de Villeneuve,’ said Madame Bourdier, ‘ you oring the 
gallantries of Paris to America.’ 

“ ‘ Wherever there is beauty and love,’ said Monsieur 


184 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


Bourdier, glancing first at Grace and then at the Marquis, 
* there will be gallantry.’ ” 

Isabel read this letter with a trembling heart. It was 
but too evident that Grace was approaching a terrible 
precipice, lured thither by the delusive sophistries of others, 
and blinded to her danger by her love of display, her pas- 
sionate desire of admiration. To one who knew her yield- 
ing, dependent nature, there was little consolation in the 
conviction that there were moments in which the mists 
around her were dissipated, — in which she perceived her 
true position, and started back from it in terror. Such, 
Isabel did not doubt, was the feeling which had impelled 
her to fling her bracelet on the floor, upon discovering the 
cipher engraved on it ; yet the next moment the flatteries 
of the Marquis had soothed her ruffled spirit, and she had 
stifled the dictates of her heart in obedience to those of her 
vanity. Already had Isabel attempted to point out to her 
the very danger which she was now so rapidly nearing, 
and she had only irritated where she would have saved ; 
yet, in the spirit of him who exclaimed, “ Strike, but hear 
me,” she resolved to make another effort to arouse her. 
She had one advantage now — she would be heard ; for the 
written words could not be silenced. She wrote with the 
heart ; and vivid, yet tender, was the picture she presented. 
Hers was the cause of truth, and she would use no false 
glosses in maintaining it. She acknowledged all the bril- 
liancy, all the charm to the senses, of the position in which 
Grace would be placed by her acceptance of the Marquis 
de Villeneuve, — an acceptance to which her continued en- 
couragement would almost compel her. But after giving 
to its attractions their brightest coloring, she asked, “ After 
all, dear Grace, what is there here for the heart, — what to 
strengthen us in earthly trial — what to elevate our spirits 
to the Heavenly — what to repay us for a sacrifice, from 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


185 


the very contemplation of which the sensitive and delicate 
mind shrinks appalled ?” 

Asa contrast to this picture she presented another equally 
free and decisive in its touches. She did not conceal her 
suspicion that Grace sought in the glare and mad excite- 
ment of her present career, a refuge from the desolation 
of blighted hopes and crushed affections ; she did not deny 
that should Grace dare to pass from this glare and this 
excitement, it would be into darkness and a void. “ Yet, 
dear Grace,” she added, “ sad as this life may seem, would 
that you could summon courage to meet it ! There is at 
least no falsehood, no seeming in it ; it is a true life, and 
at the heart of truth, dearest Grace, ever lies peace. Do 
not think I speak as one who never suffered. Will it give 
force to my words if I acknowledge that I have entered 
that dark and desolate void ? I entered it, dear Grace, not 
trusting in my own strength, but leaning on the arm of 
'everlasting love, and I have found there a blessed rest. I 
have not ceased to sorrow, and yet I am at peace, — a peace 
which I would not exchange for all that my young life 
knew of brightness.” 

Grace never replied to this letter ; but a week after it 
was sent, arrived another gratulatory epistle from Mrs. 
Elliot, which rendered all reply needless. Grace had ac- 
cepted the Marquis de Villeneuve, and their engagement 
had been made known to their mutual friends. 

“ The Marquis,” wrote Mrs. Elliot, “ has acted very 
generously. His presents to Grace are really splendid, 
and he has already invited me to spend the first year of 
their wedded life with them in Paris, intimating at the same 
time the pleasure he should feel in having Miss Douglass 
do the same.” 

Aunt Nancy was doomed to experience the disappoint* 
ment of those hopes which had made glad her lonely home, 
16 * 


186 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


Harry was again the bearer of a letter which he was sure 
was from Miss Grace. The contents of this letter we will 
place before the reader : 


Washington, Jan. 5th, 182-. 

Mr dear Aunt, 

I have been sitting for more than half an hour with my 
pen and paper before me, wanting courage to say what 
must at last be said. I know, dear Aunt Nancy, that you 
love me, and that you have enjoyed the idea of my coming 
to you for a few weeks ; and that makes it so hard now +o 
say that I cannot come, — that I am going far, far away — 
farther than I have ever been before, without even one fare- 
well look at you and the old house. Oh, Aunt Nancy ! I 
cannot bear it : what shall I find in their finest palaces that 
I shall care for half so much as for the dead leaves from 
those old oaks under which I have walked by my own dear 
father’s side ? and who will look on me in that far city with 
half the true love in their eyes that even dear old Maum 
Hagar has for me ? And yet I am going away from you 
all, and I have little hope, in spite of all the promises of the 
Marquis, that I ever shall see you again. I am very un- 
happy, dear Aunt Nancy, — at times very unhappy, — it is 
so hard to know what is right ; people think so differently, 
— you always knew — I was always nappy when I did what 
you told me ; and now, if I could fly away to you, and lay 
my head on your bosom, and tell you all my troubles, as I 
used to do, and hear your counsel, I am sure I should be 
happy again. My tears come so fast that I can hardly see 
what I write ; — I am interrupted, and must conclude my 
letter at another time. 

Jan. 7t*h. — It is two days, my dear aunt, since I com- 
menced this letter, and it is still unfinished. Were it not 
ihat in a letter, as well as in other things, le premier pas 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


187 


always costs most, I would throw aside what I have writ- 
ten, for except my love for you and the dear old place, 
and my sorrow for leaving you both without another look, 
there is not a word in it that does not seem very ridiculous 
to me to-day. Few would think it a great cause of grief 
to be engaged to a Marquis, and about to take a very high 
position in one of the most brilliant cities in the world. 
You will not be surprised at this intelligence, for my last 
two letters must have prepared you for it. I wish I could 
have introduced the Marquis to you. He is not, perhaps, 
all that in my childish dreams a Marquis and a lover ap- 
peared, but he is agreeable in his appearance and manners, 
and what is of more consequence, loves me with all my 
faults upon my head ; a quality, this last, which those 
learn to value highly, who have found how little love they 
are likely to meet with in the world. Monsieur Bourdier, 
the French minister here, says that De Villeneuve is one 
of the oldest titles in France, and that I shall find myself 
at once at the very head of French aristocracy. He talks 
of the Marquis’s splendid hotel in Palis, of his grand cha- 
teau, and his high connections, until I really feel quite 
afraid that I shall not know how to play my part with any 
propriety. Aunt Elliot, however, has promised to go with 
me, and before she leaves me, I hope t.o be perfect in my 
new character. The Marquis intends to invite Isabel too, 
but I do not think she will accept the invitation. Isabel’s 
taste and mine are so different that we rarely like the 
same things, and I doubt very much whether the life we 
are likely to lead in Paris would suit her very well. The 
Marquis regrets almost as much as I do that we cannot 
see you before we leave America, but Monsieur Bourdier 
has spoken so seriously to him of the necessity for his im- 
mediate return, that he feels there is no time to be lost in 
preparing for it ; and as it seems that his devotion to me 


188 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


has kept him already many months longer in this country 
than he intended to be, I cannot venture to delay him 
longer. We shall set out to-morrow on our return to 
New York. As soon as we arrive, Aunt Elliot will com- 
mence the preparations for our— oh, Aunt Nancy ! I can- 
not write that word, there is so much in it from which my 
heart shrinks — but it is enough to tell you that we expect 
in one month to sail for France. I dare not trust myself 
again to talk of my feelings in going from you. It would 
be ungrateful, I feel, to indulge any sad emotion, when so 
bright a lot awaits me. I will write you when the wed- 
ding-day is appointed, and on that day I want you to make 
a present to every one of the negroes, in my name. 

Send me your blessing, dear Aunt Nancy. Whatever 
I may be to the rest of the world, to you, I know, I will 
always be Your own dear 

Grace Elliot. 

It had been very long since Aunt Nancy had met with 
any thing that so ruffled the tranquillity of her life, as did 
this letter. This visit had been for weeks the object of 
such joyous anticipation. She had taken such delight in 
preparing for it. Every thing within and without the 
house had been made to assume its brightest aspect, that 
Grace might again be won to love the home from which 
absence had doubtless somewhat estranged her. In her 
own room — the room in which she had slept in her infancy, 
— this affectionate care was especially visible. Its dimity 
curtains, and toilette drapery, and coverlet were bleacher as 
white .as snow, and its mantelpiece had been adorned for 
several days past with roses, and jonquils, and hyacinths, 
plucked each morning while the dews were yet sparkling 
upon them, and arranged by Aunt Nancy’s own hand, with 
whe hope that ere night the eyes of her darling would be 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


189 


gladdened by their beauty. It Ivas to this room she now 
went with that sad, sad letter in her hand. She looked 
around on its simple preparations with a quivering lip, she 
remembered the splendid hotel, with its brilliant yet dan- 
gerous distinctions, for which Grace had exchanged this 
home of her pure and happy childhood, and while she wept 
for her own disappointment, kneeling once more beside the 
bed where she had so often knelt before, she prayed. 

We will yet hope for Grace, for prayer so fervent from 
a spirit so humble and so tender, is ever heard in heaven. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“ I’m weary of the crowded ball ; I’m weary of the mirth, 

Which never lifts itself above the grosser things of earth ; 

I’m weary of the flatterer’s tone, its music is no more, 

And eye and lip may answer not its meaning as before. 

I speak in very bitterness, for I have deeply felt, 

The mockery of the hollow shrine, at which my spirit knelt.” 

Whittier. 

New York, bustling, busy New York was more bustling, 
more busy than ever. The belle of the season was about 
to be married, and to be married to the Marquis ; and 
milliners, mantuamakers, tailors, jewellers, upholsterers, 
and confectioners were interested in the event. Mrs. Elliot 
was full of pleasing cares. The preparations for her own 
wedding had scarcely given her so much enjoyment, — they 
had certainly cost her far less money. Not that she now 
expended so much on her dress, but her reception-rooms 
were to be refurnished, and the bridal apartments of Grace 


190 


TWO LIVES : OR. 


to be fitted up. Nor was this all. Madame Bourdier had 
promised to come to them for a week on an occasion of So 
much interest, and even the Minister had expressed a hope 
that he would be able to make such arrangements as would 
permit him at least to be present at the marriage, and 
apartments must be prepared for them, and all must be 
done in a style of elegance befitting a Marquis and his 
friends. There had been something in Mr. Elliot’s manner 
whenever a bill was presented to him of late, that made her 
think it prudent to say nothing to him of her intentions till 
they had been accomplished. Accordingly his first intelli- 
gence of them was received from the view of the impe- 
rial carpets, the girandoles, and chandeliers, the splendid 
mirrors, the rose-wood tables, couches, divans, and otto- 
mans, which under the direction of Chester, and Phyfe, and 
Coxe, had in a single day taken the place of more accustom- 
ed objects. To this view he had been introduced by Mrs. 
Elliot with no small degree of that tact on which she prided 
herself. Watching from a window for his approach in 
the afternoon, she met him at the hall door, and in a play- 
ful, caressing manner, ^ linked her arm in his and said, 
“ I am going to introduce you into enchanted halls, but, 
before you enter them, you must submit to be blind- 
folded.” 

Loosing a scarf from her shoulders, she threw it over his 
head. 

“ Nonsense !” ejaculated Mr. Elliot, but his voice was 
not severe, and he^ suffered himself to be led forward by 
her. 

They stood within the parlor, and having first closed the 
door, she removed the scarf, exclaiming, “ Look ! Is that 
not enchantment, and am I not a pattern wife to arrange all 
this without wearying you with endless talk about possi- 
bilities and proprieties ?” 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


191 


Whatever misgivings there might be in her heart, she 
forced herself to speak and to look mirthfully ; but there 
was no mirth in his eye as he turned to her with the 
question, “ And pray, madam, who is to pay for these 
things ?” 

“ Do not look so dreadfully grave about it, and I will 
promise to save you that trouble too. You need only hand 
me your purse or your pocket-book, well-filled, and I will 
settle the whole affair.” 

“You will not settle it from my purse or my pocket- 
book. You have incurred the debt yourself, and now, you 
must pay it yourself.” 

“How can you be so unreasonable, William ? Do you 
not see that it would have been impossible to avoid doing 
what I have done ?” 

“ I see no such thing.” 

“ Then it is because you will not look at the facts. 
Here are Monsieur and Madame Bourdier, — persons ac- 
customed to the utmost elegance, — coming to De Ville- 
neuve’s wedding ; would you have had me receive them 
in a house filled with old, shabby furniture, so pass6 in 
style, that it would stamp us at once as persons of no 
fashion.” 

“ There would be less disgrace in that than in having 
your husband known as a person of no credit, a character 
which your follies, if unchecked, will soon acquire for 
him.” 

If Mrs. Elliot knew little of her husband’s business, that 
little was enough to supply her with a retort to this speech. 

“If my follies were set against your losses in Wall- 
street, it might soon be determined, I suspect, to which you 
are most likely to owe the character.” 

This speech was not the less irritating because it was 
unanswerable ; and Mr. Elliot rejoined in an accent at 


192 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


once angry and determined, “ There is no use in this 
wrangling, Matilda, and you know that I do not like it ; 
but my determination is unalterable, and can be made 
known in very few words. I never will pay a dollar of 
this money, for the best of all reasons — I cannot. You 
have your own allowance of a thousand a year — your father 
took care that my losses should not touch that — and you 
can pay for them yourself. If you cannot pay the whole 
in one year, as you have had no losses in Wall-street you 
can probably get credit for a part of the debt.” 

“ You are very unkind, William,” said Mrs. Elliot in a 
faltering voice; while tears rushed to her eyes, “ you know 
it will be impossible for me to spare any part of that thou- 
sand dollars, if I go to Paris.” 

“ Then you must give up Paris, unless you can find 
some better expedient, for I cannot do impossibilities ; I 
cannot pay for these things, and I will not consent that you 
shall leave behind you an honest tradesman’s bill unpaid.” 

Mrs. Elliot had no farther opportunity that evening of 
testing upon her husband her powers of reasoning or of per- 
suasion, for, as he concluded this decisive sentence, he 
went to his study, turned the key in the lock, and did not 
make his appearance again, till assured that the presence 
of others would secure him from any renewal of the subject. 

“ You must give up Paris ;” these were words of dread 
and dole to Mrs. Elliot. Paris had been the dream of her 
life ; each year the dream had become brighter in contrast 
with the realities which every season’s repetition rendered 
more tame and insipid. Never had that dream seemed so 
near its fulfilment as now, and should it be disappointed, 
what would people say ; what would the Marquis think — 
and Grace ? but at thought of her, a beam of hope irradi- 
ated the gloom. 

The will of Mr. Elliot, the father of Grace, had not left 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


193 


the sole management of her property to her uncle. Two' 
of his friends in Georgia had been associated with his 
brother as executors of his will, and to them had been 
confided the preservation and entire management of her 
property in that State ; but the whole surplus income of 
that property, instead of being applied to its increase at 
home, was, by his direction, to be paid over to Mr. Elliot, 
of New York, to whose sole discretion its appropriation was 
confided. The average amount of this surplus income had 
been eight thousand dollars. In its investment Mr. Elliot 
had evinced more prudence than in those he had made for 
himself. Twelve thousand dollars of it had been placed 
out on bond and mortgage. This, since the engagement 
of Grace with the Marquis, he had recalled and placed ir 
bank to her credit. He informed her of this arrangement 
in the presence of her aunt, adding, “ It is a large sum, 
Grace, but remember, it is not inexhaustible. I would have 
you prepare yourself in a liberal and handsome manner 
for the position you are about to occupy but you must 
not forget that it will be several months before you can ex- 
pect to receive the proceeds of your last year’s crop, and 
that ready money will be very acceptable both to Monsieur 
de Villeneuve and yourself, on your entrance into life in 
Paris.” 

Of all this, Mrs. Elliot only remembered at present, that 
there were twelve thousand dollars in bank subject wholly 
to the control of Grace, and that Grace was easily stimu- 
lated to a lavish, careless expenditure, which she had been 
accustomed to dignify with the name of generosity. With 
an almost assured hope, therefore, she entered the dressing- 
room of Grace early the next morning, and dismissing the 
French femme de chambre, who was assisting at her toilette, 
commenced the projected attack upon her purse by lament- 
ing the necessity of their parting with a fervor of emotion 
17 


194 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


which even the possibility of disappointment rendered by 
no means insincere. 

“But why do you talk of our parting, Aunt Elliot ?” 
questioned Grace, as she received and returned her caress- 
es. “ You are going with me, and who knows but that I 
may come back with you ; at least, we will not grieve with 
a year of pleasure before us.” 

“ But there is no pleasure before me, Grace, for I can- 
not go with you.” 

“ Cannot go with me !” repeated Grace, in dismay. 

“ No, Grace, I fear it is impossible.” 

“ And what will De Villeneuve, what will Madame 
Bourdier, what will everybody think ?” 

“ I have thought of all that, Grace ; thought of it through 
a long, sleepless night ; — but what can 1 do ? Your uncle 
refuses to pay for the furniture I have bought ; I am sure 
you know, Grace, it has been only what was absolutely 
necessary ; I could not have the friends of the Marquis 
consider his connection with you a mesalliance , as they 
might well have done, if every thing around us had ap- 
peared shabby and old-fashioned. It was done for your 
sake, dear Grace, and that shall comfort me. I will not 
regret it, let it cost me what it may ; no, not even though 
I must give up my intended visit to you.” 

“ But I do not see why you should give it up.” 

“ Because, as I have said, your uncle will not pay for 
this furniture ; and I must. How I am to pay three thou- 
sand dollars — for little as it is, it cost that — out of an allow- 
ance of a thousand a year I am sure I do not see, — the 
people must wait on me ; but at any rate, with this debt on 
my hands, I must not dream of Paris. Ah, Grace ! if I 
had twelve thousand dollars in the bank !” 

“ And I have twelve thousand dollars in bank, and T can 
pay for it!” exclaimel Grace. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


195 


“ Oh, no ! that is not to be thought of ; you know after 
a few weeks the furniture will be of no use to you.” 

“ But it was bought for my advantage, and 1 will pay 
for it. It was so stupid in me not to remember sooner that 
I could.” 

“ Dear Grace ! How generous you are ! But you will 
never get through the world so ; you must learn to be more 
prudent; more like Isabel.” 

“ Isabel is generous too ; you know she has i © so much 
to give away as I,” said Grace, with something like a 
twinge of conscience, as many memories rose up to her of 
Isabel’s sacrifice of her own wishes to her lightest caprice. 

“I did not ask her to give me any thing ; but, before I 
would say any thing to you about my difficulties, I did ask 
her to lend me, on interest, and with good security, part of 
the five thousand dollars that I knew her uncle had deposit- 
ed in bank for her. She colored up and really seemed 
quite angry, and at last told me that she had already dis- 
posed of that five thousand dollars. She may have disposed 
of it in her thoughts, but I am sure her uncle would never 
give her the control of such a sum of money, without some 
better reason for it than she has had this winter.” 

“ I think I had better get Uncle Elliot to give me a check 
at once for all the money 1 want for my own purchases, as 
well as for the furniture. How much shall I say ?” asked 
Grace, as she was leaving her room. 

“You have decided to let your present camel’s hair 
shawl serve you till you arrive in Paris ; have you not ?” 

“ Yes ; the Marquis says there is not one we have seen 
here handsome enough for me.” 

“ Generous De Villeneuve ! Ah, Grace ! you are a for- 
tunate girl. I think you had better ask your uncle for five 
thousand dollars. Two thousand will certainly pay for all 
you will like to purchase in New York.” 


196 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


“ Jewels and all ?” questioned Grace. 

“ You will want no jewels. Your pearls are new, and 
Marquand, you know, says they are the most beautiful that 
could be procured in London ; as for diamonds, we will 
talk of them to-morrow.” 

Mrs. Elliot smiled very significantly, and Grace under- 
stood that the Marquis de Villeneuve was about to present 
her with a suit of diamonds. They came during that day, 
and Grace felt that she could desire nothing more in jew- 
ellery. They were so large, so perfect, and set with such 
taste and elegance, that she was not surprised to learn from 
her aunt, that the jeweller from whom they were pur- 
chased, had requested permission to exhibit them to some 
of his customers before sending them home. “We under- 
stand that the splendid diamonds lately to be seen at the 
Messrs. Marquand’s brilliant establishment, were pur- 
chased by a gallant French nobleman, well known in our 
fashionable circles, for his intended bride, the peerless 
flower of the South,” was an announcement in a morning 
paper, which Mrs. Elliot did not suffer to escape the eye 
of Grace, and which caused her a thrill of pleasure almost 
as great as the possession of the jewels themselves. 

All around Grace was smiling and joyous. Admiration 
beamed on her from every eye ; the soothing tones of love 
were heard in every voice. It seemed as if every cloud 
were to be driven from her sky, for even Mrs. Stuart’s 
grave looks, which might have cast some shadow on its 
brightness, she was not doomed to encounter. Mrs. Stuart 
was absent from the city ; she had gone, Grace asked not 
where or when. To all save Isabel, Grace seemed then 
the most enviable of beings ; she had attained the summit 
of her wishes, and in the smiling present and the glorious 
future, all memory of the sombre past faded into indistinct- 
ness. But to Isabel’s deeper, because more loving percep- 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


197 


tion, there was a restlessness, a fitful gayety about her 
which betokened a heart not at peace with itself. She 
seemed to live more than ever in the outward — hurrying 
onward in pursuit of some diversion for the passing hour. 
During the last few months Isabel seemed to have passed 
beyond the sphere of Mrs. Elliot’s control, a:ad that with- 
out any effort on her own part. She was now permitted to 
pursue her own tastes with only an occasional remon- 
strance. These tastes seldom led her into the assemblies 
of glittering inanity, so dear to her aunt and cousin ; and 
many an evening as she saw Grace, brilliant in beauty and 
sparkling with a feverish gayety, depart for the scene of 
anticipated triumph, she turned to the quiet room in which 
books, or the cheerful converse of intelligent friends, 
awaited her, with the deepest pity in her heart, and a 
prayer upon her lips, that the same Power which had 
stilled the waves of her own troubled life, would breathe 
over that of Grace those accents of divine energy — 
“ Peace ; be still.” Without any expression of these feel- 
ings by Isabel, Grace had an almost intuitive conscious- 
ness of them, and they excited in her an impatience little 
short of resentment. That Isabel should acknowledge her 
good fortune seemed essential to its full enjoyment, and to 
compel this acknowledgment she was ever eager to exhibit 
to her every new acquisition. To her the diamonds were 
of course displayed. Isabel admired their splendor ; but 
to the sensitive ear of Grace there was something wanting 
in her tone, and she was turning away with a feeling of 
disappointment and pique, when passing her arm affection- 
ately around her, Isabel exclaimed, “Ah, Grace! if I 
could but be sure that you were happy !” 

Grace withdrew coldly from her embrace, as she replied, 
“You must think me very unreasonable, Isabel, if you 
suppose that I am not happy.” 

17 * 


198 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


She advanced to the door, but before she had reached it* 
Isabel’s arm was again around her, as she urged, “ Forgive 
me, Grace. We are to part so soon ; let there be no un- 
kindness between us.” 

“ If there be unkindness between us, Isabel, it is in your 
trying so constantly to make me dissatisfied with the lot 
that is before me.” 

“ Not to make you dissatisfied with it, Grace, but to 
arouse you to a perception of your real feelings, while it is 
yet possible for you to escape from it. Grace, it is not yet 
irrevocably cast.” 

Grace grew deadly pale, and for an instant Isabel feared 
she would faint, as she gasped out, “ Isabel, is any other 
interested in these hints ; do they mean — ” 

“ Nothing, Grace,” Isabel hastened to say, “ except 
what I once wrote you, that no position in life is so much to 
be deprecated as that in which we dare not appear what 
we are — in which we must be false to ourselves or others.” 

Before Isabel had ceased speaking, Grace stood before 
her, proudly, haughtily erect, with the flush of passion on 
her cheek, and its sparkle in her eye ; its depth, too, way 
in her tone, as she said, “ If you do indeed desire, Isabel, 
that there should be peace between us, I warn you, that 
you must never recur to this subject.” 

“I will obey you, Grace,” said Isabel, with gentle 
gravity. 

A week later and Madame Bourdier had arrived, and 
Marion Elliot. Grace felt that the coil of destiny was 
tightening around her, and more and more wild grew her 
efforts to forget what she could not resist. She had never 
even for an hour deceived herself into the belief that she 
really loved the Marquis de Villcneuve, and now, she 
could scarcely subdue the impulse which bade her shrink 
from him, while she turned with a feeling of inexpressible 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


199 


dread from every indication of the rapid approach of 
that day, in which she must solemnly vow to be his— 
his wholly — his forever. So strong are the instincts with 
which God has guarded the purity, the sacredness of mar- 
riage. 

For a week before her marriage the all-powerful “ What 
will they say ?” compelled Grace to remain at home, and 
thus deprived her of the diversion from thoughts that be- 
came every hour more intolerable, which she had sought 
and sometimes found, abroad. The marriage was appoint- 
ed for Thursday, and on the preceding Sunday — that day 
so tedious to the triflers of earth, so full of beautiful re- 
pose, of calmness and strength for the earnest and heaven- 
ly-minded — Marion sat till a late hour of the night in his 
father’s study, writing letters. It was nearly twelve 
o’clock, and he supposed all the family at rest, when the 
door opened softly and Grace entered, wrapped in a dressing- 
gown. Her face was pale from agitation, and as the ex- 
pression of her countenance seemed to denote, from some 
painful resolve. Carefully closing the door after her, she 
advanced to Marion’s side, and said almost in a whisper, 
“ Marion — I have a question to ask you.” 

“Well, ma cousine, qu’est ce que c’est .?”* he inquired 
gayly, having amused himself of late in speaking to Grace 
as if she were a Frenchwoman and could understand no 
other language. 

“ Marion,” she exclaimed passionately, “ do not speak to 
me in that language ; I hate it, I hate every thing connected 
with it. If it be possible for you to be serious for one mo- 
ment, tell me, and — oh ! Marion tell me truly — does W alter 
Stuart still love me ? I do not ask if he have forgiven me, 
Marion, but does he love me ?” 


* My cousin, what is it? 


200 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


“ Grace ! in what way can such a question interest you, 
the bride of another?” 

“It is false,” she cried, almost fiercely, stamping her 
little foot upon the floor, “ and it is cruel in you, Marion, 
to call me so ; I am not yet that most wretched thing, and 
I never will be if you can only assure me that I may find 
in Walter Stuart’s affection a shield from the reproaches 
which my seeming fickleness will incur from others.” 

Marion - looked at her and listened to her with astonish- 
ment. 

“ Grace !” said he, “ sit down and calm yourself.” 

“ Marion ! you will drive me mad,” she exclaimed ; “ I 
pray you answer yes or no to the simple question — c does 
Walter Stuart love me !’ — if he do, I know by myself that 
he will forgive me all the past.” 

“ Grace, I pray you compose yourself.” She made a 
gesture of impatience. “ I cannot answer your question, 
for Walter has used your name to me but once since you 
parted, and then it was to bid me never again to utter it in 
his presence.” Grace pressed her hand upon her heart. 
“ That was no proof that he did not love you, Grace ; 
Walter’s affections are neither given nor withdrawn in a 
day — but — ” he paused with a hesitating manner. 

“ Tell me all,” she gasped. 

“ I do not believe that he would marry any one, however 
passionately he might love her, who — who — ” Marion 
paused again. 

“ Who could engage herself to another, you would say,” 
and the voice of Grace, for the first time since she entered, 
was unfaltering, though its deep tone sounded like an echo 
from her very heart. Marion dared not look at her, and 
could not speak. She remained perfectly still while one 
might deliberately have counted ten, then she asked in the 
same tone, “ W as that what you meant ?” 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


201 


“ Grace, you give me great pain by these questions, what 
can I say to you ?” 

“ The truth.” 

“ But you ask me of things of which I can know nothing 
certainly.” 

“ Marion, you either do not or will not understand me ; 
I ask but your opinion whether you think that Walter 
Stuart, should I now withdraw from — from Monsieur de 
Villeneuve, would receive me as his.” 

“ And should I answer that I believed he would, what then ?” 

“ Then I would pray you, for humanity’s sake, to take 
me hence this very hour, to travel with me night and day 
till you placed me in his arms. Oh, Marion ! the thought 
of his scorn is eating into my soul. Let him only smile 
upon me, and I will try to forget what others think.” 

Again her voice had become soft and broken, her lip 
quivered, her cheek was flushed, her eyes were full of 
tears, and her hands clasped in entreaty. Had Walter 
Stuart seen her, even his stern spirit might have given 
way, but the feeble can resist for their friends what the 
strong would find it no easy task to resist for themselves, 
and Marion answered, “ Grace ! this is folly, madness. 
You must forget Walter Stuart, for, I am convinced, it will 
be the business of his life to forget you, if he have not 
already done so — but, for heaven’s sake, if this Marquis be 
so indifferent to you, do not marry him.” 

Grace answered not. She had sunk into a chair and 
covered her face with her clasped hands. She sat thus 
for several minutes, and when, rising slowly, she turned 
towards Marion, he was shocked at the ghastly paleness 
which had overspread every feature of her face. 

“ I rely on you, Marion,” she said feebly, “ never to 
reveal what I have said to you this evening. Forget it— 
it is easy for men to forget,” she added bitterly. 


202 


TWO LIVES : OR] 


She advanced towards the door, but Marion placed him- 
self before it, urging, “ Let me entreat of you, Grace, do 
not consummate this .marriage with such feelings as you 
have avowed.” 

“ Would you have me make myself the talk of the whole 
world without winning back the only love that could give 
me power to endure it ; no, no, say no more of it, but let 
me pass, Marion, I am weary.” He stood aside and she 
left the room. 

It was long ere Marion slept that night, for notwith- 
standing his light, unsteady temperament, he had great 
truth of character, and there was something terrible to him 
in the life of falsehood which Grace had thus revealed. 
When she met him the next morning, though the color on 
her cheek might have deepened a shade, her words were 
gay and her eye bright ; and from this time she walked 
with a seemingly unfaltering step to her doom. 

Thursday came. It was the sixth of February, and 
the day was clear and bright as June, if not so warm. 
At the request of Grace, Isabel was to be one of her 
bridemaids, and this morning early Grace entered her 
room with a case in her hand containing a set of pearls 
as nearly as possible like her own. Isabel- embraced her 
warmly, and kissed her with the fervently uttered prayer, 
“ God bless you, dear Grace, and make this a happy day 
to you !” 

A slight shudder passed over Grace, but she said noth- 
ing ; indeed Isabel gave her no time to speak, before lifting 
the lid of a box near her, she took from it two bracelets 
woven of hair whose glossy jet bore a great resemblance 
to her own, and placing their clasps side by side, she said : 
“There is my wedding present to you, Grace. It is a 
jimple one, but I know you will value it.” 

“Value it! Oh Isabel !” Grace could say no mor^ 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


203 


she was showering kisses and tears upon those precious 
clasps, the perfect, though small miniature likenesses of 
her father and Aunt Nancy. 

“ It is my hair,” said Isabel at length, “ I hoped you 
would not be less pleased with them for that.” 

' “ Less ! Ah, Isabel ! but I cannot wonder that you 
speak thus. You will forgive me, I know,” and she 
laid her tearful face on Isabel’s bosom — “ you will forgive 
me for all my caprices. I must not speak now of their 
cause. But,” she added, raising her head and turning 
to a less painful subject, “how did you get these likenesses ? 
they are so perfect.” 

“ Do you remember a rough, careless sketch made years 
ago by a visiter, of your father on horseback, which 
Aunt Nancy preserved because it was so good a likeness ? 
at my request she enclosed it in a letter to me, and Robin- 
son found no difficulty in making the miniature from that. 
For Aunt Nancy’s likeness I had to task my own memory 
and skill. I succeeded in giving the outlines of her face 
and something of its expression with a pencil, and by 
carefully watching the progress of the artist and sug- 
gesting alterations and improvements almost daily, his copy 
grew at last into what I think a very fair representation 
of her dear kind face.” 

“ It is perfect, and my beloved father’s too, and your 
hair ; dear, dear Isabel ! I never loved my home and all 
its inmates so fondly as to-day. Oh ! that I were again a 
nappy, innocent child there — that I could change places 
with the meanest slave privileged to live there — that I 
could wake from this dreadful dream. Oh, Isabel ! it is 
fearful — fearful !” 

The poor girl shuddered and wept convulsively : Isabel 
wept with her and kissed her, and called her by every 
endearing name. She longed to do more, to say, “ Free 


204 


TWO LIVES . OR, 


yourself even now,” but there was a rap on her door, 
and Mrs. Elliot’s voice was heard inquiring, “ Is Grace 
here ?” 

“Tell her I am in my room,” cried Grace, as x she darted 
through the door of the closet that separated her room froro 
Isabel’s. 

Mrs. Elliot came to bring to Grace the costly bouquets, 
arranged with exquisite taste, which the Marquis had sent 
to her and to each of her four bridemaids. They were 
accompanied by a note, full of that graceful, airy tender- 
ness which a Frenchmam seems peculiarly gifted to ex- 
press. It was then eleven o’clock, and as one had been 
the hour appointed for the ceremony, Grace had little time 
left for thought. Those two hours were occupied by the 
friseur and the attendants on her toilette. Their labors 
were at length completed, and she stood among her youth- 
ful bridemaids the acknowledged Queen of Beauty — 
lovely as the loveliest dream that ever visited the rapt 
hour of poet or of painter. The exquisite delicacy of the 
lace which floated around her, the soft, rich folds of the 
glossy satin, — few thought of these. It was the shower of 
golden ringlets shining through that light veil, the brow 
fair as the pearls wreathed among those ringlets, the 
cheeks to which the flush of excitement had lent a richer 
beauty, the thousand nameless graces, “that softly lighten- 
ed o’er her face,” or gave more winning attraction to her 
form and movements, which drew the gazer’s eye and re- 
mained long impressed upon his memory. If any except 
Isabel noticed the sadness that lay in her eyes’ shadowy 
depths — it seemed but to give to her loveliness a more 
spiritual and tender character. 

Two questions had greatly disturbed Mrs. Elliot’s mind 
in her preparations for this important event. The first 
was, should Grace be married by a Romish priest in com 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


205 


pliment to the Marquis de Villeneuve’s religious creed, or 
by the Episcopal Bishop in compliment to her own preju. 
dices, which represented Romanism as the faith, in America, 
of the lower classes, among which only she had known it. 
This question, the Marquis himself had decided for her, 
by assuring her that he preferred the bishop, with whom 
he had some acquaintance, and that he should consider the 
marriage just as valid, if performed by a civil magistrate 
as by any clergyman at all. The second question was, 
should the ceremony be performed at home or at church ? 
There were advantages attached to each place which must 
be relinquished in the other; but, after mature delibera- 
tion, home was preferred in consideration of the difficulty 
of preserving one’s dress in perfect order under the wrap- 
pings necessary in a carriage. 

At a quarter to one o’clock the elegant phaeton of the 
Marquis de Villeneuve, drawn by four splendid white 
horses, with its attendant coachman and footman in new 
and handsome liveries, stood at Mr. Elliot’s door. The 
Marquis was accompanied by Monsieur Bourdier, who 
had arrived late in the previous night, and preferred 
going to a hotel to disturbing Mr. Elliot’s family. As 
soon as they had alighted, the carriage was sent for the 
bishop, and before he arrived, the favored guests in- 
vited to witness the ceremony had assembled. These 
were “ only a few very particular friends,” Mrs. Elliot 
said, yet they amounted to about a hundred persons. 

Monsieur Bourdier had requested permission to give 
away the bride, and we doubt whether even the exquisite 
loveliness of Grace attracted more attention than his jew- 
elled collar and glittering orders. The Marquis, too, wore 
the insignia of the order of St. Louis. On the whole it 
was a gay and imposing, rather than a solemn scene 
There were but two deeply serious faces among the spec 
IS 


206 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


tators, that of the Right Reverend Bishop H 1, whose 

earnest and commanding eyes awed the lightest into deco- 
rum, and that of Isabel, who, as she touched the ice-cold 
hand of Grace and looked upon her fevered cheek and 
glittering eyes, as she marked her irrepressible shrinking 
from the Marquis de Villeneuve at his first approach, and 
her one wild glance and half step towards her uncle, as 
if about to claim his sympathy and protection, read the 
terror of her soul at the linking of those bonds which she 
herself had forged. 

But why need we linger on the sad, yet brilliant scene. 
Grace had laid herself upon the altar of vanity, and no 
good angel stepped in to ward off the impending blow. 
The words were uttered which pronounced her a wife, and 
she rose from her knees, the admired, the envied, and the 
miserable Marquise de Villeneuve. We cannot dwell on 
the details of the day, of the dinner, of the evening recep- 
tion. Suffice it, they were all that Mrs. Elliot could de- 
sire, who laid her head upon her late-sought pillow that 
night with the pleasant reflection that she had done her 
duty by Grace at least, if Isabel had by her impractica- 
bility marred all her designs for her ; for one, at least, 
of her husband’s orphan nieces she had secured a brilliant 
destiny. 

Grace was now impatient to leave America. Still un- 
taught that not in the outward lay her peace, she hoped to 
find it in new scenes ; and it was with a feeling more akin 
to joy than any that had visited her for long months, that 
she stood, a fortnight later, on the deck of the noble packet 
in which she had embarked for Havre, in company with 
the Marquis de Villeneuve and her aunt, and saw the last 
faint line that ^marked the American coast fade into in- 
distinctness. The rush of waters that sounded on her ear 
was associated with no record of past love and sorrow; 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


207 


.lie salt spray which the wind dashed into her face seemed 
a baptism into a new life, the spirit of youth and hope re- 
vived within her, and she sang in low, yet not sad tones, 

“ With thee, my bark, I’ll swiftly go 
Athwart the foaming brine, 

Nor care what land thou bear’st me to, 

So not again to mine.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


“ A perfect woman, nobly plann’d, 

To warn, to comfort, and command ; 

And yet a spirit still and bright, 

With something of an angel light.” 

Wordsworth. 


“ The mind is its own place.” 


Milton 


In little more than three weeks after the departure of Mrs. 
Elliot, a crowd again thronged the rooms in whose adorn- 
ment she had spent so much, but a crowd of very different 
character from that which had lately filled them. It was 
no longer her “ dear five hundred friends” only. All who 
had curiosity to see, or money to buy, might enter there ; 
for the red flag of the auctioneer waved over the door, — 
and carpets and tables, girandoles and chandeliers, couches, 
divans, and ottomans, splendid curtains, French china, and 
glittering plate, were at the service of the highest bidder. 
And where were Isabel and Mr. Elliot, while strangers’ 
feet were thus tramping through their home, and strangers’ 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


eo8 


voices echoing from its walls? They were occupying 
rooms in a small house in a street far removed from fash, 
ionable life. Their landlady, a childless widow, who had 
been accustomed to eke out a slender income by a few 
boarders, was a tenant of one of Mr. Elliot’s old friends, 
who was now also his principal creditor. This gentleman 
had evinced a deep interest in the gentle and generous 
girl, to whom Mr. Elliot, in a moment of irrepressible 
feeling, had acknowledged to him that he was indebted for 
almost all her little fortune, and who yet clung to him in 
his ruin, soothing him by her affection, and striving to shed 
{.he light of her own clear, bright spirit upon his darkened 
life. This interest even more, perhaps, than his old friend- 
ship, had induced him to inquire into their plans, and aid 
them in their execution by giving them intelligence of the 
lodgings which they had taken. 

Isabel had scarcely bidden adieu to the companion of 
her childhood, when her thoughts were forcibly drawn 
from her by her uncle’s increased gloom, and, at times, 
alarming agitation of manner. She regretted now that 
she had not confided to Marion her late discovery of his 
lather’s sources of anxiety, but Marion was gone, and on 
such a subject she did not dare to write, while so much 
was still but conjecture. There was so much of wildness 
often in Mr. Elliot’s words and looks, that her terror might 
have given her boldness to seek Mrs. Stuart’s advice, but 
Mrs. Stuart was still absent from the city, whence she had 
gone from a generous desire to avoid a meeting, which she 
believed would be even more painful to Grace than to her- 
self. She went to visit a friend in Connecticut, intending 
to return as soon as Grace had sailed, but the letter from 
Isabel which gave her this intelligence, found her nursing 
the three youngest children of her friend through an attack 
of measles ; and when they recovered, she was still farther 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


209 


detained, first by her own severe indisposition, and then by 
a week of unusually inclement weather, during which the 
navigation of Long Island Sound was considered very un- 
safe. 

Thus deprived of counsel and thrown upon her own dis- 
cretion, Isabel sought by the same gentle, playful means 
which had formerly prevailed with her uncle, again to win 
his confidence, but in vain. Instead of the petulance which 
she then encountered, all her efforts were met by a deep, 
dark, sullen gloom. One evening, at tea-time, instead of 
sending a servant to summon Mr. Elliot, Isabel went her- 
self to his study and entered without knocking. He was 
seated at a table on which his elbows rested, and his fore- 
head was bowed within his clasped hands. Isabel stepped 
softly to his side — her hand was upraised, but before she 
had touched him, he murmured, “ If I had only been con- 
tented to ruin myself — but fool ! — fool !” He paused, and 
Isabel remained still, not from curiosity, but from awe of 
the deep emotion which his tones expressed. As she re- 
collected herself, she determined to leave him as silently 
as she had approached, but before she had taken the first 
cautious step, another murmur reached her ear : “ My 
poor Isabel ! you who always loved me so; I could have 
borne it better had it been any other than your orphan 
child.” 

In an instant, by an irresistible impulse, Isabel’s arms 
were around his neck and her head bent upon his as she 
said, “ Your sister Isabel has sent her orphan child to com- 
fort you. Ho not reject her, my uncle ; your love, youi 
confidence are more to her than wealth.” 

Her tears fell upon his cheek and he was melted. He 
threw his arms around her and pressed her to his bosom, 
but the next minute he put her from him, and speaking 
wildly and rapidly, said, “ Ah, Isabel ! you are kind now, 
18 * 


210 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


but what will you say, when I tell you that I have lost 
your five thousand dollars too ?” 

She smiled brightly through her tears and answered 
quickly, “ What will I say ? Why, that we are very for- 
tunate people in having fifteen thousand left to live upon.” 

“ But you have not fifteen thousand left to live upon. 
I have withdrawn the ten thousand dollars which I had 
plac ed out for you on bond and mortgage ; and — and — 
say half of that has gone in the same way.” 

“ Then we must be contented to live within ten thousand, 
for I will not permit any extravagance,” and she kissed 
him with a playful tenderness which she rarely exhibited. 

Her kindness seemed only to render him more wretched. 
He threw himself again into his chair and covered his face 
witji bis hands. She attempted to draw them away, and 
he exclaimed, “ Isabel, in mercy, leave me ! Your kind- 
ness only makes me more miserable ; but hear all, and then 
you will be kind no more. Thousand after thousand of 
your money have I thrown away, even as I did my own, 
upon the last miserable hope of the gamester, to win back 
what I had lost. You have not ten thousand dollars, you 
have nothing but the house I purchased for you the last 
year ; your whole income is about three hundred and fifty 
dollars. Now you know all the wrong I have done you — 
go.” 

While he was speaking, Isabel had tried to sooth him by 
caresses, but when at the last word he flung her off and 
drew his hands from her clasp, she rose up proudly erect, 
and answered in a firm voice, “ No, Uncle Elliot, that is 
not all the wrong you have done ; there is a greater wrong 
than any you have named — the wrong of believing that I 
value those paltry thousands beyond your love ; with such 
an opinion of me, I wonder not that you throw me from 
your arms and bid me leave you.” 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


211 


This appearance of wounded feeling accomplished what 
her tenderness had failed to win. Mr. Elliot folded her to 
his bosom and called her his child, his noble Isabel, but 
immediately after he exclaimed, “ How shall I endure the 
thought that I have injured you ?” 

“We will learn to .endure all painful things cheerfully 
for each other’s sake, dear uncle. Every smile I win from 
you will be worth more than a thousand dollars to me, and 
so you may soon bring me largely in your debt. But now 
the first thing you shall do for me is to com® and take your 
tea.” He would have declined, but she said in sorrowful 
t. nes, “ You will do nothing for me, I see and he con- 
sented. 

Before they retired for the night, Isabel ventured to en- 
treat her uncle that he would no longer wear out his ener- 
gies in the worse than fruitless effort to support . false ap- 
pearances. “ Neither you nor I, dear uncle, care for large 
rooms or fine furniture,” she said. 

“ God knows where we shall find a shelter when we give 
up this,” ejaculated Mr. Elliot, starting from his chair and 
pacing the room with rapid steps. Isabel rose and joined 
him, passing her hand affectionately through his arm. 
After walking two or three times across the room in silence, 
she said gently, even timidly, “ I wish I could speak all 
my feelings to you, Uncle Elliot, with an assurance that 1 
should neither wound nor offend you.” 

“ Speak, speak, my child ; you have a right to be listen- 
ed to.” 

“ Yes, the right of affection, there never can be any 
other question of right between us ; but since you permit 
me, I will speak. It seems to me that the most important 
thing for us — the only important thing, is to ascertain what 
is right, and then, by doing it, to place ourselves, as it were, 
under God’s protection. This is His world, dear uncle, and 


212 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


He will give us food and shelter in it, if we obey and trust 
in Him. Is it not so ?” 

“Certainly, my child.” 

“ Then, dear uncle, had we not better give up at once 
this great house and these superfluities which you say no 
longer belong to us, and let us take our three hundred and 
fifty dollars — ” 

“ Yours , Isabel.” 

“ Ours, dear uncle, and go where we can live on it. 
Marion, I dare say — ” 

“ Ah, my poor Marion ! he must suffer too.” 

“ Suffer ! with a lieutenant’s pay.” 

“He may suffer more painfully than in his purse.” 

* “ Do you mean that his engagement with Miss Duncan 

may be interrupted ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Never ! she will love him the better for his sorrows.” 

“ But her father — ” 

“ Is a true Virginian, Marion says, generous and honor- 
able. He will not make his daughter unhappy or with- 
draw his own favor for the sake of fortune. Marion will 
do very well, and I doubt not will be rich enough to help 
on our housekeeping with a ten dollar bill occasionally, if, 
with my economy, we should ever need it. Oh, dear 
uncle ! we want nothing but trusting hearts to be quite 
happy.” 

Mr. Elliot sighed with the reflection, that there was more 
than this needed for the happiness of one who was con- 
scious of having committed a deep wrong to another ; for, 
though the last desperate ventures made with Isabel’s 
property had been truly made for her sake, and to redeem 
what he had imprudently accepted from her and lost, he 
felt, now that he had awoke from his dream, how worse 
\han weak ne had been. So much of his prtiperty was 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


213 


mortgaged, to the full amount of what he supposed it would 
bring, that his hope of saving any thing from the wreck for 
her was slight indeed, so slight that he did not even deem 
it worth naming to her. Sad as these thoughts made him, 
it was impossible to steel yiis heart against so affectionate a 
comforter, or his reason against so modest a counsellor, and 
he promised that he would the next day take the first steps 
towards paying every man his own. 

When they met at breakfast thev next morning, Mr. 
Elliot looked into Isabel’s eyes, as if he feared to read sad- 
ness there, but she smiled upon him, and he kissed her 
with a feeling of gratitude as well as tenderness. To her 
question of “ How he had slept ?” he replied, “ Better than 
for many nights, my child.” So much peace does even a 
good resolution bring ! Upon that resolution Mr. Elliot 
began immediately to act, and as his losses would soon be- 
come generally known, Isabel, with his consent, wrote to 
Marion. A reply was quickly received from him realizing 
her happy predictions. He lamented that he had been 
such an extravagant dog — to use his own expression — or 
he might have had hundreds laid by, with which to aid his 
father ; but now that he knew his necessities, he assured 
him he would religiously devote a portion of his pay to him 
every month. He regretted that his mother had been per- 
mitted to go abroad in ignorance of the truth, but added 
that she would doubtless return as soon as she heard it, 
and on her jointure, and what he could very well spare 
from his pay, his father and herself might still live in com. 
fort and not without elegance. 

“ Cheer up, dear father,” he continued, “ I shall be a 
colonel, perhaps a general some day, and be assured my 
good fortune shall ever be yours and Isabel’s — dear Isabel ! 
she belongs to us henceforth, father, does she not ? For 
me, I am so full of joy, that I should be too happy, had I 


£14 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


no sorrow of yours for which to grieve. I have just re- 
turned from a visit to my beloved Mary. I gave her 
Isabel’s letter to read, and told her that I had now nothing 
of this world’s wealth, but my commission to offer her. I 
cannot tell you all she said ; it is enough that we are more 
closely united than ever, she has even consented at last to 
appoint the day for our marriage, which will be in six 
weeks from next Wednesday. Both Mr. Duncan and Mary 
earnestly desire to see you and Isabel, at that time ; and 
for me, I am not sure that I shall not forbid the bans my- 
self, if you do not come. But even this all-important sub- 
ject must not drive out of my head Mr. Duncan’s kindness. 
When I mentioned to him the change in our circumstances, 
he said that for your sake he regretted it, but for me, if it 
induced habits of system and economy, which he hoped my 
desire to aid my father would stimulate me to acquire, he 
thought it would be a decided advantage to me. It could, 
of course, make no change in my relations with his family, 
and he wished I would say to my father, that if his difficul- 
ties arose from any temporary cause, and the loan of a few 
thousands would help him through them, they were heartily 
at his service.” 

Though those dear to him thus united to smooth his 
descending path, and though his creditors were unanimous 
in expressing their entire confidence in his upright inten- 
tions, and their readiness to concur in any arrangement 
which should promise to guard at once his interests and 
their own, there were many things necessarily encountered 
by Mr. Elliot of a very painful character. The very pity 
which he saw in the looks of many, was a shock to the 
feelings of one reared in an elevated position, and ac- 
customed to all the reverence which even in our re- 
publican land waits on him who unites to wealth the birth 
and breeding of a gentleman. Isabel suffered, too, and 


TO SEEM * AND TO BE. 


215 


not only through her sympathy with her uncle. She had 
to relinquish many an accustomed gratification ; to part 
with many objects dear to her taste, or to her feelings ; to 
exchange large and lofty apartments, furnished with every 
convenience and elegance, for confined rooms and scanty 
furniture ; and for many days she found herself very awk- 
ward in the performance of many services, which she had 
been accustomed to receive from others from her earliest 
childhood. And she had been subjected to one trial great- 
er than all these united. 

The fault of Isabel’s nature was a reserve that bordered 
upon pride. Her deepest emotions rarely found expression 
in speech, even to her dearest friends, and the sympathy 
which Grace craved from all, was to her a sacred offering, 
which could be accepted only when tendered by affection. 
To such a nature, it will readily be seen that any disclosure 
of her private history, her misfortunes or her necessities to 
the indifferent, the stranger, or the mere acquaintance, 
must have been galling indeed. Still more so perhaps 
would be that subjection of any portion of her time to their 
control, which must be the result of her assuming towards 
diem the relation of one who for stipulated services should 
receive a stipulated payment. Yet it required little thought 
to convince her that three hundred and fifty dollars a year 
would scarcely furnish to two persons the merest necessaries 
of life. Something must be done to procure for herself 
some profitable employment, and it must be done so secret- 
ly that her uncle would not suspect it, and so quickly that 
he could not oppose it. After a rapid review of her 
various accomplishments, she concluded that music would 
prove the most profitable. Having first obtained from a 
celebrated pianist, her former teacher, permission to refer 
all who wished any attestation of her abilities to him, she 
next applied to Mr. Foster, the merchant who had already 


216 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


evinced such interest in her, to procure some pupils for 
her. This, as she left the terms wholly to his discretion, 
was soon done, and before Mr. Elliot had any imagination 
of her designs, she was giving lessons to six little girls, at 
twenty dollars a quarter. To add to the difficulty a 
which she commenced these labors, she was obliged t t- 
tend her pupils at their own houses, as she was in so re- 
mote a quarter of the city that they could not be sent to 
her. 

He who having made the heart, 

“ Knows each chord, its various tone, 

Each spring, its various bias,” 

can alone tell with what dread that first round of visits w'as 
anticipated, — with what a painful, sickening effort they 
were made. But they were made ; and as she had ever 
found it, in obedience to her convictions, she regained her 
serenity, nor could any of these trials, nor all of them 
united, cast more than a passing shadow over the sunshine 
of her soul. 

And now, will we be forgiven if we pause for a moment 
to ask the young heart just standing upon the threshold of 
life — its object of pursuit, its path of progress, yet un- 
chosen — to look steadily on that picture and on this ; on 
the brilliant, the wealthy, the courted Marquise de Ville- 
neuve, all the energies of her nature wasted on trifles, from 
which the highest boon she hopes to win is forgetfulness ; 
and on Isabel Douglass, disappointed in her heart’s deepest 
and strongest affection, through the selfish caprice of an- 
other ; her life of luxurious ease, and elegance, and free- 
dom, exchanged for the petty cares, the self-denial, and 
the subjection of some part of each day to the control of 
others, which poverty entails ; yet with a high and pure 
faith in her heart, recognising the hand of Divine Love in 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


217 


each event of her life. See Grace in one of the most splen- 
did hotels in Paris, where every sense is ministered to — • 
where art is hourly tasked to furnish new pleasures to the 
capricious fancy — mark her, flitting from one scene of 
reckless gayety to another, seeking everywhere for some- 
thing to satisfy the craving void in her heart — and seeking 
in vain. At the very hour at which she is setting out for 
some glittering assemblage, let us turn back to the humble 
lodging of Isabel, and by the dim lamp that burns in her 
lowly chamber, see her kneeling beside her bed ; mark the 
elevation expressed in her uplifted face ; hearken to her 
prayer, that God would graciously grant to her tenderly- 
remembered cousin the peace which He has shed into her 
own heart — and choose your goal and guide. If your 
choice be the dazzling distinctions, the glittering wealth, 
the sparkling pleasures of earth, then let your guide be the 
spirit of earth — the spirit which looks not beyond the nar- 
row circle of self, which sees in love only the gratification 
of its own desires ; in its fellows only the ministers to its 
pleasures or its pride, which sets the present above the fu- 
ture, and the praise of man above that inward satisfaction, 
which is the seal of God’s approval. But if your choice 
be the peace of Heaven, then let the spirit of Heaven be 
your guide ; yield yourself to its holy monitions ; be care- 
ful rather of what you are than of what you seem ; be 
jealous of any spot or blemish on your soul’s beauty ; let 
your love be but an intense sympathy with a noble nature ; 
view your fellow-beings as objects. for the exercise of your 
kindly and generous affections ; and thus make all things 
tend to advance you to the fulfilment of your high aspira- 
tions — your aspirations after the Holy — the only aspira. 
tion in which the human soul can be assured that it will 
never meet with disappointment. 

IQ 


218 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


CHAPTER XVI. 

“ Grow in the world’s approving eyes, 

In friendship’s smile and home’s caress, 

Collecting all the heart’s sweet ties 
Into one knot of happiness.” 

Moore. 

Hubert Falconer was not one who could turn with a 
thankless heart from the thousand blessings in his path, be- 
cause he had seen one dearer than all, and failed to win it. 
There was a holy meaning to him in that word “ life.’* It 
had sacred purposes — purposes deeper, higher, broader 
than earth. Should its pleasures all be taken away, its 
duties would still remain, and well he knew that they en- 
closed a blessedness beyond all price. When therefore he 
parted from Isabel, and returned to Virginia after her re- 
jection of his suit, he sat not down in gloom and despond- 
ence. Pie entered, on the contrary, with more vigor than 
ever into his labors of love for the cause of humanity. He 
exerted himself unceasingly for the elevation of those who 
had been consigned especially to his care by the Provi- 
dence of God. Since he had entered the ministry he had 
received more than one call from wealthy churches in 
neighboring cities ; but their acceptance would, in his 
opinion, have interfered with the performance of his duties 
as a son, a master, and a neighbor, and he preferred to 
preach without salary in the little country church within a 
few miles of his home, whose pulpit had till then been filled 
only by an occasional itinerant. Here his congregation 
consisted of a very few persons of the highest intellectual 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


219 


culture and social position, and of hundreds of unlettered 
slaves. His commanding intellect, his refined taste, his 
unbending rectitude of life, gave him power over the first ; 
but his pitying, self-denying love acquired over the last an 
almost boundless influence : and the feeling which brought 
bright smiles, or, not unfrequently, tears of more deep 
delight to their faces at sight of him, was to his heart a 
dearer homage than the praise of princes could have be- 
stowed. 

It was in their log-cabins, or in familiar converse with 
them by the wayside, that he received his most cheering 
impulses, and drank his deepest draughts of strength and 
peace — proving that it is indeed “ more blessed to give than 
to receive.” 

Yet there were times when to a mother’s sharpened vis- 
ion there seemed a dimness in his eye, a sorrow in his 
heart. His hopes were bright, but they looked beyond the 
grave. He no longer planned for this life or anticipated 
future years, with the buoyant) all-expecting spirit of his 
youth. Sometimes, as he walked at the still evening hour 
under the old oaks and elms that threw their shadow for 
many a rood around his home, she saw that there was sad- 
ness in his air ; at other times she caught the sigh with 
which, he laid aside the favorite volume that now lacked 
tne power to chain his thoughts down to the present scene. 

“ He needs a companion for his heart and mind, one 
whose youthful feelings may sympathize with his ardent 
and hopeful nature more fully than I can do,” said Mrs. 
Falconer to herself, and on this hint she spake ; but her 
recommendations of marriage in general, and her eulogies 
of certain young ladies in particular, were received with 
equal coldness, and when she urged the subject, he replied 
by a frank history of his short but eventful acquaintance 
with Isabel. 


220 


TWO LIVES : OR. 


With many lovely and noble qualities combined in su** 
proportions as to constitute a character of no common ex* 
cellence, Mrs. Falconer was said generally to be a little 
proud. There was in her manner a certain stateliness 
which afforded some ground for the charge ; yet we be- 
lieve that she was too true a Christian willingly to enter- 
tain such a feeling for herself, but for her son how could 
she be otherwise than proud, — how could she endure for 
him the indignity of a rejection ? Her cheeks colored, and 
a ray of their old fire shot from her eyes, as she listened 
to his relation ; and when he had concluded, laying her 
hand upon his, she exclaimed, “ Forget her, my son, she is 
not worthy of you, or she could not have failed to love you.” 

“ That is a mother’s thought,” he replied with a smile, 
as he kissed her crimsoned cheek : “ she is worthy of the 
noblest — if a pure and tender heart, and a. mind clear and 
vigorous and full of beauty, enshrined in one of the love- 
liest forms on which my eyes ever rested, can make her so.” 

“ Is it possible you can love her still V 9 

“ What attribute capable of inspiring love has she lost ? 
I have no hope of winning her, and I would therefore gladly 
abstract from my love all desire of appropriation ; but that 
is only the baser part of love — the selfish principle in it, — 
and its higher properties, admiration, and sympathy, and 
deep interest in her welfare, I would wish to retain always.” 

No allusion was again made to this subject by Mrs. Fal- 
coner until after her son’s return from his hurried visit to 
New York with AY alter Stuart. She had regretted the 
necessity of this visit, and her anxious eye soon detected 
traces of the influence she dreaded. 

“ You saw Miss Douglass in New York, Hubert,” she 
said one evening, when he sat near her with a book in hia 
hand, on which it had been evident to her for many minutes 
that neither his eyes nor his thoughts were fixed. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


221 


Mr. Falconer started and colored at the unexpected ob- 
servation, but recovering himself, answered, “Yes, I saw 
her, but only for a few minutes.” 

“ Her power must be great indeed, when she is able to 
exert such an influence over you in a few minutes.” 

“ Influence over me ! I am not sure that I heard her 
speak.” 

“ Indeed ! and yet I am sure that you have thought more 
constantly of her since your return. I hope she has not 
the power attributed to less young and pleasing witches in 
olden time of infecting you through her eyes.” 

Mr. F alconer answered, with a slight laugh, “ I will not 
assert that she has not. But, at present, her influence has 
been obtained through another. I had a conversation with 
Mrs. Stuart, which, while it confirmed my impressions of 
the loveliness of her character, gave me some reason, — or 
rather, with or without reason, has awakened some doubt 
in my mind of the truth of my conclusions respecting her 
feelings toward me.” 

“ How can there be any doubt ? Did she not refuse you ?” 

“Sorrowful truth!” ejaculated Mr. Falconer, with a 
half smile at her warmth. “ She did ; and there is really 
nothing in Mrs. Stuart’s communication, when I analyze it 
critically, which I can set against that fact ; yet there was 
enough to make me perturbed and restless, vacillating be- 
tween hope and doubt. One moment I am ready to set 
out for New York immediately and submit my hope to her 
decision, and the next I accuse myself of coxcombry for 
daring to hope at all.” 

“ Without accusing you of coxcombry, I may say I 
should be grieved to have you act on such insufficient 
grounds, and thus probably afford an ungenerous triumph 
to a coquette.” 

« Oh, mother ! mother ! How little you can conceive 
19 * 


222 


TWO LIVES : OR; 


of Isabel Douglass when you apply such a term to her. 
Could you only see her, the simple dignity of her manners 
would make you feel its injustice even before you learned 
any thing of her true and upright mind. I do not hesitate 
in my decision from any fear of affording her a triumph, 
but because I shrink from the possibility of inflicting pain 
on her through her generous sympathy.” 

“ Both the triumph and the pain might be avoided by 
applying to a discreet friend who understood her feelings.” 

“ I do not think Miss Douglass likely to express her feel- 
ings on such a subject to a third person.” 

“ And yet a judicious friend might, with the exercise of 
a little tact, discover something of them — Mrs. Stuart, for 
instance.” 

Mr. Falconer rose and paced the room long in silence, 
then seating himself, said, “ Your suggestion is a tempting 
one, but I fear that your affection for me makes you over- 
look the objections to it ; is it delicate towards Miss Doug- 
lass ?” 

“ I do not see how it could be regarded as otherwise by 
the most fastidious, if you present your affection for her as 
the reason of the inquiry.” 

“ Could I spend some weeks in New York I would ra- 
ther trust to my own observation than to any report ; but 
my poor people — there is so much sickness among them 
just now, that I fear I ought not to leave them for so long 
a time — I must think of it.” 

The result of Mr. Falconer’s thoughts was the follow- 
ing letter to Mrs. Stuart, dispatched the day after this con- 
versation : 

Bellevue, Co., Va., Jan. 7th, 182-. 

Dear Madam, 

To apologize for the liberty I am about to take, in claim, 
ing your sympathy and your services, would be to do in- 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


223 


justice to my perfect confidence in your friendly regard. 
I feel convinced that I shall please you as well as myself 
better by acknowledging, without any ceremonious glosses, 
that I need the aid of a judicious friend in a matter of the 
deepest interest to me, and of such delicacy that, except 
my own mother, who is, for many reasons, out of the ques- 
tion, I know no one but Mrs. Stuart to whom I would be 
willing to confide its conduct. 

If you recall to your mind our conversation' respecting 
Miss Douglass on the evening I lately spent with you, it 
will furnish you with a key to my present communication, 
and perhaps the interest which I then evinced in her, may 
have prepared you for the confession that she is and has 
long been very dear to me. This confession was made to 
her before we parted in the last summer. That we did 
part shows that it was not favorably received ; and yet 
there was a depth of sorrow in her rejection, which seemed 
to me even then not quite compatible with the indifference 
that should have prompted it; and you assure me that 
since that period a change has passed over her life indica- 
tive of some experience of deep and agitating emotion. 
Shall I appear presumptuous to you in acknowledging that 
these circumstances have awakened a hope too dear to be 
suffered to die unheard, a hope that some obstacle, now 
perhaps removed, some misapprehension since corrected, 
may have separated us ? 

You will not, I am sure, suspect me of the littleness of 
endeavoring to avoid by this application to you what some 
might esteem the disgrace of a second refusal. I am 
ready to acknowledge to Miss Douglass and to the world 
my undiminished love for her, somewhat proud, it may be, 
of my power of appreciating her noble qualities of mind 
and heart, and of continuing constant to that appreciation 
when I had no hope of ever winning for myself a place in 


224 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


her regard ; but I shrink from annoying her by my per* 
tinacity, and still more from inflicting on her sensitive na- 
ture the pain which I am sure she would feel in causing 
suffering to another. Besides, while my hope is, as I have 
said, too dear to be easily silenced, it is scarcely strong 
enough to give me courage for such an appeal after an un- 
qualified dismissal. I only seek from you what may inspire 
me with this courage. I do not ask to be assured of the 
certainty of success before I again offer to her my once 
rejected heart ; I only desire to know that some change 
has taken place in the circumstances which then made 
success impossible. Will you endeavor to obtain for me 
this important information ? For the same reasons which 
deter me from a personal application to Miss Douglass, I 
would prefer, if possible, that you should do so without re- 
ferring to this communication ; but in this as in all else 
connected with it, I commit myself to your discretion. 

I shall await your reply with such solicitude as we ex- 
perience only when the heart’s strongest earthly desire 
hangs wavering in the balance, — yet hesitate not to tell 
me the truth, however painful, for I am not ignorant that 
from the wreck of his most cherished hopes the Christian 
often wins a peace that passeth understanding, and for which 
all that the world calls happiness may well be exchanged. 
May this peace be ours ! 

Believe me, dear Madam,' with sincere esteem and 
regard, 

Your friend and servant, 

H. Falconer. 

Unfortunately Mrs. Stuart had left New York before 
this letter arrived there. It was forwarded to her, but as 
the mails were not delivered with very exact punctuality 
at the country-place in which she was, her answer was 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


225 


necessarily delayed long beyond the period at which it had 
been expected. It came at last, however, just as Mr. Fal- 
coner had despaired of it, and was hesitating whether to 
write again or to trust only to a personal interview with 
Mrs. Stuart. When it was received it brought little satis- 
faction. Mrs. Stuart thanked him warmly for his confi- 
dence, expressed the deepest interest in the subject of his 
letter, and assured him of her warmest wishes for his suc- 
cess ; more she could not venture to do till she had seen 
Isabel, and it would probably be a fortnight, at least, be- 
fore her return to the city would enable her to do that. 
The fortnight passed away, another and another week 
slowly and heavily followed it, and still Mr. Falconer 
learned, by occasional inquiries from Captain Stuart, that 
his mother was detained in the country. At length, when 
March was near its close, another letter arrived for him, 
written on board a steamboat bound from Hartford to New 
York. In this letter, Mrs. Stuart, after regretting her ne- 
cessarily prolonged delay, informed him that she hoped the 
next day to be once more at home, and that she should, by 
mailing her letter on the way from the steamboat to her 
own house, give him the earliest and most positive assu- 
rance of her arrival. 

Her letter proceeded thus: “I should not have written 

to you again until I had seen Miss D , and could 

give you some information on the subject with which our 
correspondence commenced ; but circumstances have lately 
been made known to me, of which I consider it right to 
give you immediate information, as they may exert some 
influence over your decisions.” Mrs. Stuart here com- 
municated the disastrous and total failure in business of 
Mr. Elliot, and the consequent surrender of his property, 
and change in his style of life. “ Of so much,” she con- 
tinued, “ I have been for some time aware, having learned 


226 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


it from Isabel herself ; but yesterday, for the first time, I 
received from another correspondent the additional intelli- 
gence, that the fortune of Miss Douglass had been swept 
away in the wreck of her uncle’s ; so small a pittance 
remaining, that she has withdrawn with him, to what my 
informant calls * very mean lodgings,’ and is engaged in 
giving music lessons for her support. I well understand 
why my generous Isabel has not given me this full revela- 
tion ; she knew that it would render my submission to tho 
unavoidable circumstances that kept me absent from her, 
more difficult and painful. I have said that I thought it 
right to make this communication to you immediately, be- 
cause it might influence your decisions. It is true, that I 
do not believe it will ; yet there are points in the position 
of each person known only to himself, which may greatly 
modify the conduct proper to him in any given case. Un- 
der this conviction, while I shall endeavor to obtain the in- 
sight into the feelings of my friend which you desire, my 
efforts shall be made in such a manner as in no degree to 
compromise you.” 

Mrs. Stuart was mistaken ; her intelligence did greatly 
influence Mr. Falconer’s decisions. Even before he finish- 
ed reading her letter, he had determined to set out for New 
York with the least possible delay ; that if he received any 
encouragement from her, he might not lose an hour in pre- 
senting to Isabel the suit which had become more than 
ever important to him : or, if his own hopes were destined 
to disappointment, that he might claim the right of a friend 
to serve her : or, at least, if nothing else was permitted 
him, that by aiding Mr. Elliot to re-establish himself in 
business, he might indirectly promote her happiness. Hav- 
ing found, by reference to his watch, that it was too late 
for him to hope to reach that day’s stage or steamboat, he 
determined to set out early next morning, and immediately 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


227 


communicated this intention to his mother. Mrs. Falconer’s 
was a generous nature. In Isabel’s misfortunes she almost 
forgot her offences, and the sympathy she expressed for 
her, and the commendation she bestowed on her conduct, 
as reported by Mrs. Stuart, was pleasant music to her son^ 
ears. 

As he rose from his dinner, which was always served at 
three o’clock, Mr. Falconer ordered his horse. “I will 
ride over to the fort,” he said to Mrs. Falconer : “ Captain 
Stuart or Lieutenant Elliot may have some packages which 
they would rather intrust to me than to the mails.” 

“ By the by, Hubert, we have not seen young Elliot 
here lately ; ask him if he is too much engrossed by Miss 
Duncan to call occasionally on an older friend. Tell him 
he- is too great a favorite with me to be given up so easily.” 

Mr. Falconer bent down and pressed his lips to his 
mother’s forehead. He loved the spirit which made Marion 
an especial favorite as soon as she heard of his father’s 
misfortunes. 

Five miles of good, firm road, were soon passed over by 
a fleet horse and a fearless rider, and Mr. Falconer stood 
in Captain Stuart’s quarters in half an hour from the time 
he left his own door. Captain Stuart was seated at a table, 
on which a large chart was spread out ; and the book he 
held in his hand was one of the latest on the tactics of his 
profession. He threw it down to offer his hand to his friend ; 
but, though his greeting was cordial, no smile visited his 
lips. The lines of his face had become sterner than of old, 
and his deep-set eyes had lost the expression of tenderness 
that formerly lightened their gravity. To Mr. Falconer’s 
inquiries for Marion, he replied, that he had ridden over to 
Mr. Duncan’s. 

“ Poor fellow !” said Mr. Falconer, “ how does he bear 
his father’s reverse of fortune ?” 


228 


TWO LIVES : ORj 


“ As he bears every thing — lightly. There are some 
natures that rise like cork to the top of the wave, let it roll 
as heavily as it will. Once satisfied that the change in his 
circumstances would not affect his connection with Miss 
Duncan, and Marion seemed to care little about it.” 

“ I am sorry to learn that Mr. Elliot’s misfortunes will 
press so heavily on his niece,” — the suddep flushing of 
Captain Stuart’s face made Mr. Falconer add the name he 
had avoided — “ Miss Douglass.” 

“ I cannot understand, from Isabel’s letter to Marion, how 
she should have become entangled in her uncle’s affairs ; 
however, she will not suffer long, if Mr. Elliot’s opinion 
be correct. Did you ever meet Foster — I mean him of 
the firm of Reese, Foster & Company ?” 

“No.” 

“He is one of our princely merchants — princely, at 
least, in wealth ; a man of about Mr. Elliot’s age, with 
nothing like his graces of person or manner, and yet he 
writes to Marion with great exultation of his friend’s devo- 
tion to Isabel, and of Isabel’s pleased acceptance of his 
attentions. So it seems she is a true woman after all, and 
loves the gewgaws of life as well as the rest of her sex.” 

For a moment, Mr. Falconer’s brow had contracted, and 
he had shrunk as from a sudden blow, at Walter Stuart’s 
confident assertion of another’s devotion to Isabel, and ' her 
acceptance of it ; but her face, so full of noble thought and 
feeling, seemed to look on him from the distant corner of 
ihe room on which he had fixed his eyes, and there was 
reproachful sadness in its calm, earnest expression. It 
seemed to accuse him of injustice, in believing for a mo- 
ment even, that she could be won by sordid wealth ; and 
with unusual warmth of manner, he replied, after a short 
pause, to Captain Stuart, “ It would take much to convince 
me that Miss Douglass could be influenced by a low and 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


229 


sordid passion. The soul that looks out from her lovely, 
serious face, is one of true nobility.” 

His eyes kindled ; his face flushed with enthusiasm. 

“You admire her greatly/’ said Captain Stuart, looking 
at him with some surprise. 

“ I do more than admire ; I love her.” 

It was an unpremeditated confession drawn from him, 
as a sort of amende for one moment’s ungenerous doubt. 

“ Is it possible ?” exclaimed Captain Stuart, “ and why 
then have you not married her ?” 

Mr. Falconer hesitated only for a moment, and then, 
with a heightened color, replied, “Because she did not 
love me.” 

Captain Stuart looked fixedly at him for a moment, 
seemed about to speak, then cast his eyes down in thought- 
ful silence, and at last asked, “ Falconer, are you sure of 
what you say ?” 

“ As sure as her rejection of my suit can make me.” 

“ This is very strange ; yet why should I say so of any 
caprice in woman ; but when did this happen ?” 

“ In July last ; the very day I left Mr. Elliot’s house to 
return to Virginia.” 

“ And in the following October I could have sworn that 
if ever woman loved with her heart’s full devotion, it was 
Isabel Douglass, and that you were the object of that love.” 

Mr. Falconer’s heart was throbbing audibly, and the 
blood rushed through his veins with lightning speed. As 
soon as he could command his voice, he asked, “ On what 
did you found this opinion ?” 

Captain Stuarc related the incident, which, it may be 
remembered, occurred at Mr. Elliot’s breakfast table, when 
Marion announced the death of Mr. Falconer. After de- 
scribing Isabel’s agitation at the announcement, and her 
sudden fainting as she received the assurance that it related 

20 


230 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


not to Hubert Falconer, but to his uncle, he concluded with 
these words, u If ever agony and ecstasy were expressed 
by a human face, it was by hers at the moment she re 
ceived the idea of your death, and at that in which she 
caught the assurance of your safety.” 

“ And why have you not told me this before ?” 

“ Because I should have thought it dishonorable to do so, 
while I had no reason to believe that you regarded her with 
any preference.” 

There was a long silence; and Mr. Falconer had risen 
to depart, before he remembered the object of his visit. 
Captain Stuart proposed to send over to him, at a later hour 
of the evening, his own letters and Marion’s, and the friends 
parted. The heart of the one was stung by bitter memories 
aroused from their coil by this conversation, while the 
pulses of the other were beating high with joyous anticipa- 
tion. There was a glad sound in Mr. Falconer’s voice 
that evening a brightness in his eyes that told of unclouded 
happiness within. In no other way did he express the feel- 
ings excited by Walter Stuart’s revelations ; they were too 
sacred for common speech. 

Mrs. Stuart found Isabel and Mr. Elliot far more com- 
fortably situated than her friend’s “ very mean lodgings” 
would have led her to believe. It is true they were in ■ 
street, where no fashionable foot was ever known to tread, 
except it might be in search of a cheap bargain, and that 
the walls of their rooms were of a dingy yellow, and that 
the windows had old-fashioned, heavy wooden shutters, in- 
stead of the modern, light Venetian blind. But Isabel 
having had her uncle’s permission to take any thing she 
wished, for them, from their former home, had furnished 
them prettily and genteelly, yet not with articles so elegant 
or expensive as to seem out of place. The back room was 
Aer uncle’s sleeping apartment, and was fitted up with all 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


231 


the comforts to which he had been accustomed. She slept 
in a small inner room, scarcely larger than a good-sized 
pantry, which, by a skilful management of space, was 
made to accommodate her bedstead, bureau, and the ne- 
cessaries of the toilette. She might have found its con- 
fined limits somewhat stifling, but for opening at night the 
door by which it communicated with the front room, which 
she had furnished as a parlor. Here, a comfortable 
chintz-covered sofa, two or three lounging chairs, a pretty 
work-table, a few pots of flowers, and the muslin draperies 
lined with rose-colored cambric, which had formerly shaded 
the windows of her chamber, gave an air both of cheerful- 
ness and comfort to the apartment. Here Mr. Elliot, for 
the first time since he left the home of his boyhood, was 
beginning to taste that domestic happiness which his heart 
craved. Isabel’s mornings were generally devoted to her 
pupils, but her afternoons and evenings were free ; and her 
uncle enjoyed with a gentle “ home-felt delight,” long un- 
known to him, her cheerful and affectionate companionship. 
Until Mrs. Stuart’s arrival, Mr. Foster had been their most 
frequent visiter. He had been cheerfully welcomed by 
Isabel for her uncle’s sake, and for the sake of the kind- 
ness which he had shown them, which she, at least, never 
suspected to proceed from a selfish motive. Soon after 
Mrs. Stuart’s arrival, however, he revealed such a motive. 
Isabel listened to his suit with almost as much surprise as 
regret. She would fain have persuaded both him and her- 
self that he could regard her with yio other love than that 
of a father ; in return for which she would readily have 
promised a daughter’s grateful and respectful affection; 
but Mr. Foster was not to be so persuaded, and applied to 
Mr. Elliot to convince her that it was quite certain he felt, 
and not impossible that he should inspire, a warmer emo- 
tion. Mr. Elliot’s eloquence was exerted in vain, and Mrs, 


232 


TWO LIVES : OR. 


Stuart, in the afternoon, found him still insisting on Mr. 
Foster’s excellent character and great wealth, and Isabel, 
weary of the discussion, listening to him in silence, but 
with no less determination. She was welcomed by both as 
an ally. 

“ I am glad to see you, Mrs. Stuart,” exclaimed Mr. 
Elliot, “ you will help me to persuade this silly girl, that a 
good husband, who can give her one of the handsomest es- 
tablishments in New York, is not to be refused without a 
moment’s thought.” 

“ And I am sure,” said Isabel, as she received and re- 
turned her friend’s affectionate greeting, “ that you will 
agree with me, that the man whom you could reject with- 
out a moment’s thought, no thought should induce you to 
accept,” 

“ Well ! but, Isabel—” 

“ Well ; but, my dear uncle, are you so weary of me, 
that you are not willing I should stay with you, whom I 
prefer a thousand times to Mr. Foster and his handsome 
establishment ?” 

“ My dear child !” said Mr. Elliot, kissing the forehead 
she had rested on his shoulder, “ you know that cannot be, 
for you make my home so pleasant to me, that, were it not 
for the thought that I have, injured you, I should be per- 
fectly happy.” 

“ And I am conscious of no injury, while you will let 
me live in this pleasant home with you.” 

“ You are an obstinate girl,” replied Mr. Elliot, with a 
smile, “and I must go and advise poor Foster to have 
nothing to do with you.” 

“ And so you have refused Mr. Foster,” said Mrs. Stuart, 
when Mr. Elliot had left them alone together ; “ pray, tell 
me if you have made a vow of celibacy ?” 

“Do you think Mr. Foster so very irresistible, that noth 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


233 


ing less binding than a vow could prevent my accepting 
him ?” 

“No, not quite irresistible, though his establishment 
. offers great temptations,” said Mrs. Stuart, with a smile : 
“ but Mr. Foster is only one of many ; there was young 
Lewiston.” 

“An empty-headed coxcomb.” 

“ And Woodly.” 

“ Who thinks he proves his manliness by swearing at 
his mother and sister.” 

“ And Coningsby ; what can you say against him ?” 

“ Nothing ; he is an amiable, excellent man ; but not to 
my taste.” 

“ And Mr. Falconer ; was he not to your taste either ?” 

The gay, careless countenance, which Isabel had worn 
during this conversation, became suddenly grave, her eyes 
fell, and her cheeks — nay, her very temples — were crim- 
soned ; but she uttered not a word ? 

“ No excuse, I see. Pardon an old woman’s curiosity ; 
and pray, tell me, Isabel, in what he failed to please you ?” 

Isabel did not speak. 

“Forgive me ; I see I am taking too great a liberty,” 
said Mrs. Stuart, gravely. 

“ Oh, no, dear friend ! that cannot be and Isabel 
placed her hand in Mrs. Stuart’s, and continued, though, in 
a low and faltering voice, without daring to meet her eye, 
“ when Mr. Falconer addressed me, I believed — I had rea- 
son to believe, that Grace — that if I accepted him, it would 
make Grace very unhappy — ” 

« Surely, Isabel,” interrupted Mrs. Stuart, impatiently, 
“ with your clear mind, you did not yield to so false a sen- 
timent, as to suppose that it was generous to sacrifice not 
only your own happiness, but his too, to a fancy of Grace V 9 

“ I had no choice,” said Isabel, while her bosom heaved, 
20 * 


234 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


and her eyes filled, “ I had promised my dear aunt, before 
I left Georgia, that the happiness of Grace should be more 
anxiously cared for by me, than my own ; that I would 
esteem no sacrifice too great, by which that happiness 
could be promoted.” 

Tears were falling from Isabel’s burning cheeks. 

“ My poor child !” said Mrs. Stuart, tenderly, “ it was 
a rash, a cruel vow.” 

“ Do not say cruel, for I made it unasked ; it was rash, 
but I had vowed it, and I must keep it, though to my own 
hurt.” 

Mr. Elliot’s step was heard below, and Isabel flew to her 
room to bathe her eyes, and remove the traces of tears, lest 
they should distress him. 

It was but two days after this conversation, that Isabel 
received another visit from her friend ; but this time she 
came not alone, and her companion was Mr. Falconer. 
Had not Mr. Elliot been absorbed by his own embarrass- 
ment at receiving Mr. Falconer in so different a style from 
that in which he had been accustomed to do it, he could 
not have failed to perceive the quick rush of blood to the 
very temples of Isabel, and the nervous start which spoke 
her agitation. Nor is it probable that the eager glance 
with which Mr. Falconer read these signs of emotion, nor 
the lingering pressure of her hand, which betrayed his own 
revived hope, would have escaped his notice. Mrs. Stuar;, 
however, allowed him little time for observation, for she 
entered at once into rapid and earnest conversation with 
him on some affair of business, and before he had time to 
wonder at the silence of their companions, she had pro- 
posed to him to walk with her to a house which she had 
seen advertised in the morning paper, and which she had 
some thought of renting for the ensuing year. Mr. Elliot 
glanced hesitatingly at Mr. Falconer. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


235 


“Mr. Falconer will excuse us, I know,” said Mrs. Stu- 
art ; “we shall not be gone more than an hour, and Isabel 
will entertain him till our return.” 

Mr. Falconer assented, and was soon left alone with her 
whom he had loved so long, and for many months so hope- 
lessly. Isabel strove in vain to throw off the embarrassing 
consciousness which had oppressed her from the moment of 
his entrance. The silence grew every instant more awk- 
ward, yet he spoke not ; and for her, she could not speak. 
At length, after what seemed to her many minutes, though 
Ihe sound of the hall door, just then closing after Mrs. 
Stuart and Mr. Elliot, told that it was scarcely one, with a 
determined effort she looked up and said, “ I hope — ” but 
her eyes fell beneath his, and the unfinished sentence died 
on her lips, as he rose and approached her. 

“ Isabel,” he said, in those low, deep tones, which she had 
heard once before, and never forgotten, “ I have never 
ceased to love, yet I would scarcely have dared to tell you 
so, had I not been encouraged by our friend, Mrs. Stuart, 
to hope.” He paused, but she was silent, motionless, ex- 
cept as her whole frame palpitated with the quick throbbing 
of her heart. “ Isabel,” he resumed, yet more earnestly, 
“ I have heard of your vow and its consequences ; will you 
not confirm the hope thus kindled ? Only tell me, that but 
for that vow, you would have been — and yet that will not 
satisfy me ; tell me rather that now — now you will be mine.” 

There was another upward glance, another vain attempt 
at speech, from Isabel ; but an Italian poet has said, 

“ Chi arrossisse e se tace parla assai,”* 

and Mr. Falconer probably thought so too, for his next words 
were murmured in her ear, as he bent forward and clasped 
tier for one instant to his bosom. 


* She who has blushed and is silent, says enough. 


236 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


Before Mr. Elliot and Mrs. Stuart returned, Mr. Fal- 
coner had won from Isabel the acknowledgment, that the 
performance of her vow had not been without a great effort 
and a bitter pang. How far the joy of the present overpaid 
that pang, she could not have told him, if she would ; that 
dear knowledge he must gather for himself, not from what 
she revealed, but from what she could not repress. Each 
moment increased the fulness of her content, as the expres- 
sion of feelings tender, yet manly, in words ardent, yet re- 
spectful, gave her added conviction of the superiority both 
in mind and heart of him to whom she had committed the 
happiness of her life. There came no disturbing influences 
from without, to trouble this inward joy. Mr. Elliot heard 
of their engagement with a pleasure shadowed only by the 
memory which conscience kept alive in his heart, of the 
wrong he had done to Isabel ; and Aunt Nancy, in reply 
to a letter from Isabel, to which Mr. Falconer had added a 
few affectionate and respectful lines, sent them her tender- 
est blessing, and most earnest prayers for their happiness. 
She would gladly, — she wrote — if possible, visit them in 
Virginia, during the summer, as Mr. Falconer had request- 
ed, but if she could not, she would be happy in the hope 
which he had given her, that she should see them in her 
own home, the next winter. 

Mr. Elliot one day inquired of Mr. Falconer when he 
should return to Virginia. 

“ fou must ask Isabel,” was the smiling reply, “I shall 
go as soon as she is ready ; I hope it will be in time for 
Marion’s wedding, and that you will go with us.” 

A few days after there came a letter for Isabel, from 
Mrs. Falconer, enclcsedin one to her son. 

“ Sealed, you perceive,” said Mr. Falconer, as he hand- 
ed it to her, “ so I have had no means of judging what 
cruel revelations it may contain. No ; do not put it away, 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


237 


Isabel read it at once, I pray you, that I may know all I 
have to fear.” 

He took up a book, and appeared engrossed in its pages 
until she had opened her letter and begun to read, and then 
his eyes were fastened on her face, reading there every 
emotion, as it arose in her mind. Soon large teais rose to 
her eyes, and fell silently and slowly down her cheeks. 

“Isabel, you weep!” exclaimed Mr. Falconer, drawing 
near to her. 

“ If I do,” said she, as she yielded her hand to him, “ it 
is because my heart is so full of happiness ; I too have a 
mother!” and she pressed her lips to the signature, and 
placed the letter jn his hand. 

It was a letter which it delighted him to read. Mrs. 
Falconer addressed Isabel as her daughter ; and said, that 
in giving her one, and one whom she so perfectly approved, 
Heaven had granted the last earthly wish of her heart. 

“ Do not, my dear child,” she continued, “ delay our 
happiness — my Hubert’s and mine, and may I not say yours 
too — from any false delicacy, or mere ceremonies. The 
old grow covetous even of hours. I would gladly hasten 
our meeting by coming to you, were it possible. It would 
gratify my warmest desires to be near you and my dear 
Hubert when you take the solemn marriage-vow; to let 
my heart go up in prayer for you, from the very altar at 
which you knelt ; but there are obligations resting on me 
here which forbid it, and I must not even think of it, lest I 
should be ungrateful enough to repine for that one drop 
wanting in my cup.” 

“I wish my mother could come to us,” said Mr. Fal- 
coner, as he read this passage, “ but I fear it is impossible.” 

“ Is it impossible that — that we should go to her ?” fal- 
tered Isabel, turning away from him her crimsoned cheek, 
as slie spoke. 


238 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


“ And would you go to her, my Isabel ? that would in* 
deed be a kind thought.” 

“ Is she not my mother’ too V asked Isabel. 

And thus it was arranged, in spite of the exclamations 
of wonder, and more grave expressions of disapprobation 
from many of Isabel’s acquaintances. Such a thing, they 
assured her, was contrary to all custom ; it would be thought 
very strange ; they were afraid people would say that it was 
a departure from womanly delicacy and propriety ; but 
Isabel read over Mrs. Falconer’s letter, listened to Mr. 
Falconer’s expressions of grateful tenderness, and kept her 
resolution, feeling that she was surrendering a mere con- 
ventionalism to the dictates of a true and pure affection. 
The suns and showers of April had not passed away, when, 
attended by Mrs. Stuart, who, at Mr. Falconer’s urgent 
request, had consented to accompany her, and by Mr. El- 
liot, she set out for the home of him, whom she had chosen 
as the companion of her life-journey. 

It was a day of glowing sunshine, tempered by cool, 
soft breezes, when the little party, having slept the prece- 
ding night at a town about twenty miles distant from Mr. 
Falconer’s home, arrived at ten o’clock in the morning at 
the point to which carriages had been sent to await them. 
Here they diverged from the stage route, and pursued for 
eight miles a road leading past gentlemen’s residences. 
At length, through a large and handsome gate, they entered 
an avenue of stately trees, from which stretched off on 
either side a lawn dotted with clumps of oak and elms. 
The avenue swept around the end of the house, and then 
before them was the tranquil and majestic James River. 
Isabel scarcely saw it, for her eyes were riveted on the 
form of her, who, having heard their approach, already 
stood in the piazza waiting to receive her. If in all her 
journey she had had a moment’s misgiving of the heart, a 


TO SEEM AND TO BE 


239 


moment’s unpleasant remembrance of what people would 
think and people would say, it must have been forgotten, 
when she felt the tears on Mrs. Falconer’s cheek, as she 
folded her in her arms as her cherished daughter, and 
thanked her again and again for the happiness she was 
giving her. 

Already a clergyman was in the house ; one of Mr. 
Falconer’s oldest and dearest friends, to whom he had 
written from New York. In the evening Captain Stuart 
and Marion Elliot, Mr. and Miss Duncan, and a few other 
well-known and tenderly-regarded friends of Mr. and Mrs. 
Falconer, were assembled, and in their presence Isabel, 
her loveliness refined and exalted by high and pure feeling, 
stood beside the stronger, bolder, yet not nobler being to 
whom she had given her heart’s first affections, and with 
that heart’s full consent, spoke those solemn words which 
made her his forever. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“ There is a calm for those who weep ; 

A rest for weary pilgrims found. 

They softly lie and sweetly sleep 

Low in the ground.” 

Montgomery. 

Four years passed rapidly away with Isabel, and in the 
serenity of her brow, and the glad light of her eyes, we 
may read that they have been happy years. One fear 
only has troubled her peace ; one sorrow clouded her life. 
The fear has been lest earth should become too attractive 
to her soul ; the sorrow has been for the companion — the 


240 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


sister of her early years. The friends of Grace have 
seldom heard directly from her ; but all the intelligence 
received of her from others, has represented her as ab- 
sorbed in the frivolities of the most frivolous circle in 
Paris. Mrs. Elliot remained with her for more than three 
years, and was at last driven home only by terror — the 
terror of another French Revolution. 

The memorable three days of July, 1830, had left Mrs. 
Elliot capable of but one idea — that there was a French 
Revolution : and from a French Revolution she thought 
none could escape too rapidly. She was no sooner con- 
vinced, therefore, that it was possible to travel with safety, 
than she made her way to the seacoast, and from thence to 
America. She had arrived in New York in September, 
and, in the following February, made her first visit in 
Virginia to her daughter-in-law, the former Miss Duncan, 
and to Isabel. 

From her aunt, Isabel found it impossible to learn any 
thing of that inner life in Grace, which most interested 
her ; yet she was the favorite subject of her conversation. 
She represented her as the presiding divinity of Parisian 
festivities, and her memory was stored with the compli- 
ments of persons of distinction to “ La belle Marquise.” 
She had even taken copies of some truly French verses 
addressed to Grace on various occasions, by some of her 
many adorers. But all this did not satisfy Isabel’s desires 
for one so dear. 

“ Is Grace happy in her married life ?” she asked one 
day of her aunt. 

“ Happy !” repeated Mrs. Elliot, probably puzzled by 
the application of so homely a word to a Marquise, a belle, 
and a bel esprit. 

“ Yes; is the Marquis affectionate to her, and does she 
love him V 3 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


241 


“ Oh ! to be sure. He is very kind to her ; lets hel 
have as much money as she wants, and asks no questions 
about it ; indeed, I do not think he ever attempts to contro 
her in any thing.” 

“ I am not sure she is the happier for that ; it is so 
pleasant to be directed by one we love.” 

Isabel glanced almost unconsciously across the room, 
where Mr. Falconer sat writing a letter. He must have 
anticipated that glance, for he looked up at the same mo- 
ment, and, as their eyes met, a smile as tender as that 
with which he first hailed her his, passed over his face. 
It was some minutes before Isabel spoke again ; when she did, 
it was to observe, “ You say Grace’s little girl looks like her.” 

“ Her very image ; she is a beautiful creature, and 
Grace dresses her splendidly, and takes her out a great 
deal. Several artists have taken sketches of the mother 
and daughter together, and they have been painted as 
Venus and Cupid, and as the Madonna and Child.” 

, Again Mr. Falconer and Isabel exchanged glances; but 
this time there was an arch expression in their smiles, pro- 
voked by the singular medley of characters thus presented. 

“ As Grace is so much attached to her child, I suppose, 
aunt, she has become more domestic since its birth.” 

“ Why should she, with excellent nurses and attendants 
of all sorts 1 That is an American idea, and would be 
thought decidedly vulgar abroad. Grace was in some 
danger of falling into it at first ; she was quite determined 
to nurse her own baby, but the fancy was so ridiculed by 
every one who heard of it, that she soon gave it up. In- 
deed, it would have been quite impossible, as she soon 
found, to fulfil the two characters of a lady of fashion and 
a nursing mother.” 

“ Ana she did not nurse her child !” exclaimed Isabel, 
with a feeling of pity for her. 

21 


242 


TWO LIVES : OR; 


“ How will the change of government affect the Mar- 
quis ?” asked Mr. Falconer, for the first time taking par 
in the conversation. 

“ I do not know ; but, from some hints he let fall before 
I came away, I fear very injuriously. I suspect a con. 
siderable part of his income was derived from his place at 
court.” 

“With such a fortune as that of Grace,” said Isabel, 
“ they can never fear want.” 

“ I do not know that,” said Mrs. Elliot, quietly ; “ the 
Marquis spends a great deal of money at play, and I 
think Grace herself sometimes plays higher than is quite 
prudent. Isabel, do tell me what that shrub is which 
stands directly opposite to this window ; I thought it was 
a camelia from a distance, but as I came near it this morn- 
ing I found that the flowers gave out a very rich perfume.” 

Isabel could not answer, she was absorbed in one thought. 
Grace play ! Grace a female gamester ! her soul recoiled 
from the terrible idea. 

“ Oh, Aunt Elliot ! surely you do not mean that Grace 
plays for money,” she exclaimed. 

“ Why, what a novice you are !” ejaculated Mrs. Elliot 
with a laugh. “ Did you expect her to live in Paris and 
not play? Everybody plays there, though to be sure 
everybody does not play so high as Grace does ; I tried to 
make her moderate her stakes, but she said she only played 
for the excitement, and there would be none of that if she 
did not play high.” 

Tears were streaming down Isabel’s cheeks. That last 
expression betrayed so much unhappiness, such an unrest- 
ing spirit, that her heart was full of a pity too tender, too 
somwful for words. Mr. Falconer rose from his writing- 
table, and left the room. In a few minutes he returned, 
leading by the hand a boy between two and three years 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


243 


old, on whose bright, beautiful face, his own high, brava 
spirit seemed to have stamped itself. The young Elliot, 
for so the boy was named, sprang forward, holding up a 
branch of the wild jessamine, covered with its fragrant 
yellow clusters, and exclaiming, “See, mamma, what 
beautiful flowers I picked for you ! Maumer would not 
let me bring them to you, because she said you were 
asleep, till papa came for me. Good papa ! I love papa.” 

Mr. Falconer bent down to kiss the child, who was lean- 
ing on his mother’s lap, and, as he did so, whispered to 
Isabel, “ You must exercise some of good Aunt Nancy’s 
faith, love ! I doubt not that she is right, and that Grace 
will yet come home to us, in the best sense of the words.” 

The boy had caught the whispered name, and he cried, 
“ Where’s my sister Grace ? mamma, please to let me 
see my sister Grace.” 

As Mr. Falconer rose from his bending position, he saw 
that his mother had entered and was standing beside a 
cradle, not far removed from the large cushioned chair in 
which Isabel reclined. 

“ Ask grandmamma to show you little sister,” he said. 

The boy bounded to the elder Mrs. Falconer’s side, and 
with a kiss which a grandmother’s heart could not resist, 
preferred his request. “ But Elliot must be very still,” she 
said, “ or he will wake little sister, and she will worry 
mamma, and that would worry grandmamma very much.” 

This warning was intended for more than Elliot, for the 
quick eye of affection had detected traces of disturbance 
in the countenance of Isabel, and Mrs. Falconer feared 
that Mrs. Elliot had been making some painful, and, in 
her present state, imprudent communication to her. As 
far as it concerned the three weeks old occupant of the 
cradle, the warning was needless — she was already awake, 
and as the silken curtain was drawn aside, she turned her 


244 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


dark blue eyes upon her visiters, and a smile dimpled the 
fair, round cheek that rested on one soft, rosy palm — a 
mark of precocity which elicited many exclamations ot 
delight. 

Isabel glanced from this lovely cherub to the almost 
baby brother bending over her with such proud affection 
in his face, to the still stately form of her who had taken 
her so tenderly to her mother-heart, and then to him, 
dearer than all, who continued standing near her with his 
hand resting on the arm of her chair. She laid her hand 
upon it, and, as he cast his eyes down to her, the smile 
upon her upturned face told him that even the sorrows of 
Grace had been forgotten in her own joy. It was a joy 
which had its seat deep in the heart. It had in it no 
glare, no pomp, nothing to attract the common eye. Its 
very existence might have been overlooked by the worldly 
heart. Its source was in the simple, and true, and pure 
affections of our nature — affections whose legitimate ten- 
dency is to their Author ; whose perfect development is 
found in heaven. 

And how had these four years influenced the character 
and happiness of Grace ? Mrs. Elliot’s conversation has 
given some faint shadowing of their effect, and we can only 
add to it a brief and rapid sketch. We parted from her on 
the deck of the packet which was bearing her, as she fondly 
hoped, to a new life — not a life of new principles, but of 
new scenes. And for a time these charmed to sleep the 
serpents . of disappointed affections and a dissatisfied con- 
science. She found herself the mistress of a hotel in the 
Faubourg St. Germains, whose large, lofty, and richly dec- 
orated, though somewhat gloomy apartments, reawakened 
that pride in the nobility of the ancient family of De Ville- 
neuve, which the personal qualities of the present Marquis 
had nearly extinguished. She loved to look at the old and 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


245 


faded tapestry, still preserved in one or two little-used 
apartments — on the few portraits existing of distant ances- 
tors, and to listen to the legends which the Marquis, grati 
fied with this homage to his consequence, endeavored to 
recall to his memory. Before this novel emotion had wholly 
ceased to please, Grace found herself immersed in the 
gayeties of Paris, the metropolis of pleasures. The Mar- 
quis had obtained a place at court, which made a not un- 
welcome addition to the income derived from his already 
burdened estate, and conferred on him the honor of a near 
approach to royalty. Grace was feted and flattered ; men 
of ton made scarcely covert love to her ; men of art sought 
her patronage ; her name gave fashion to a dress ; to have 
taken her portrait gave success to a painter. Was she 
happy ? We know not — perhaps she knew not herself — 
for happiness is of the heart, and she had no time to look 
within ; but neither had she time for painful thought. She 
was intoxicated, and quaffed yet deeper and deeper the 
Circean cup. She had not yet exhausted the novelties ot 
her position, and though each day some pleasure ceased to 
charm, some hitherto untasted delight supplied its place. 
To an observant eye one fact would have been painfully 
evident — that each new step was on a downward course, 
leading her farther from the principles of her early home. 
Principles did we say ? Alas ! principles Grace had none 
— we should have said, leading her farther from its sym- 
pathies, for these governed the life of Grace ; and over these 
her present associates, by gratifying her vanity and con- 
tributing to her enjoyment, were acquiring every day new 
power. But her early affections found a potent ally, when 
they most required it, in her child, the little Nanine. All 
ihe emotions which she excited were linked with her home ; 
and as Grace held her to her bosom, and thought how dear 
she would have been to her father, to her aunt, to Isabel, 
21 * 


246 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


their lessons came back to her heart, and she felt herself 
strong to act in accordance with those lessons, resisting all 
counter influences. But this strength was only an impulse, 
dying with the emotions that gave it birth ; and when, on 
her recovery, her former associates gathered around her, 
they resumed their empire over her life. A period was 
approaching, however, which was to try the strength of 
their devotion and of her endurance. 

The Marquis de Villeneuve had deeply pledged his es- 
tates and property of every kind to support his passion for 
play. On the income of his place at court, and on that 
derived from the property of Grace, he lived and supported 
the expenses of his manage. This last property would doubt- 
less have been sacrificed to his pleasures or to hers, but the 
terms of their marriage settlement made it impossible for 
them to alienate it during the nonage of their child. The 
revolution in France, by taking from the Marquis de Ville- 
neuve his place at court, left him solely dependent upon the 
income of that property. Grown desperate at the difficul- 
ties crowding upon him, he played higher and drank deeper 
than ever, and five months after that revolution, his life of 
unrest and feverish anxiety was terminated by an acute 
inflammation. This event aroused Grace from that ennui 
which satiety begets, when, wearied of ourselves and all 
around us, we long for change, come from wFat quarter it 
will. Yet this change was terrible. Dread, awe rather 
than sorrow, filled her soul. She had cared little for the 
Marquis de Villeneuve, but he had been her husband, and 
his death brought her very near, not to the spiritual world, 
but to the dark and terrible grave, from whose contempla- 
tion she shrank with a shuddering soul. Happy would it 
have been for her, had some one now been near who would 
have pointed her to the light beyond it ! But there was 
none, and Grace sought the only refuge from painful 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


247 


thought which her position afforded her with more avidity 
than ever. 

The laws of France, which permitted no entailment of 
property on a woman, left to the wife and child of De 
Villeneuve nothing that had once been his. Even the 
Hotel de Villeneuve was sold to liquidate the debts of its 
former possessor, and Grace retired with her child to lighter, 
gayer, though less grand apartments in the Rue Rivoli. 
The change was favorable to her spirits and her health, 
which had begun to suffer from the gloomy associations 
with her last abode. Rigidly observant of decorum, Grace 
denied herself those amusements abroad, which seemed in- 
consistent with her condition as a widow of a few months ; 
but she received her friends at home — only her friends — 
but these were enough for the graceful tableau, the gay 
proverb and charade, or the more exciting, to Grace, the 
soul-engrossing pleasures of tcarti. The ten thousand 
dollars, to which the income of her well-managed property 
in the United States had now risen, enabled Grace still to 
command all accustomed luxuries. The world again looked 
smilingly upon her. Her title, it is true, passed for little 
in the new world which the Revolution had created ; but 
beauty, and wit, and grace, would win her honors, while 
wealth procured for her a place for their display. What, 
however, are thousands and tens of thousands to one who 
games ? G *ace lost far oftener than she won ; she was 
not cool enough for ecarti, said the practised players ; and 
one night, or rather morning, for so long had she striven 
with fortune that the dawn of another day was visible in 
the east, she signed a check on her banker for the last 
thousand dollars in his hands, when she knew that nearly 
ten months must elapse before he could receive another 
deposite for her. But he had been her banker for years, he 
knew the certainty of her receipts, and he agreed— -for a 


248 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


consideration — to give her credit during the current year foi 
five thousand dollars more. For a week or two, trembling 
at past peril, Grace avoided the gaming-table ; but time 
softened the memory of danger, and the abstinence which 
had only this for its foundation, was at an end. The his- 
tory is common ; the conclusion easily foreseen. In one 
month Grace was again penniless. But this last five thou- 
sand dollars, or the greater part of it, had been won by 
one who valued a bond on his lovely debtor neyond all 
price, and he would not accept it ; he urged upon her the 
means tf winning back what she had lost, and she, in her 
madness, consented to increase her obligations to him. Do 
you wonder at this ? She was only following out the prin- 
ciple of her life — doing as those nearest her did, and ma- 
king frantic efforts to retain that on which their considera- 
tion depended. She failed in these efforts ; again and 
again her generous and disinterested creditor supplied her 
exhausted purse. At length, secure, as he believed, of 
his prey, he claimed his reward. But he had been mis- 
taken ; the prayers, the lessons,' the holy influences of the 
first fifteen years of her life were not so fruitless as to leave 
Grace capable of a degradation so deep as that. She who 
had known a pure love could not barter even its seeming 
for wealth. Aghast with horror, she looked for the first 
time on all around her with an eye conscious of the truth. 
All was dark ; all hideous. In her crowded saloons she 
saw no friend ; none on whom she could lean in this hour 
of extremity. In the moment of her indignant rejection of 
his overtures, she had freed herself of her dangerous cred- 
itor by a loan obtained on ruinous terms — terms which left 
her nothing to expect from her income for two succeeding 
years. And now she felt, for the first time in her life, 
alone — alone, “ without hope and without God in the world. 
And yet she was not all alone — her child was there, mer- 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


249 


cifully there, to bind her still to the life from which she 
might otherwise have fled, unbidden, in her anguish. Her 
child aroused the dormant energies of her nature. She sold 
her jewels and most of her furniture, and retired with one 
servant to cheaper, but not uncomfortable lodgings — more 
comfortable, indeed, than those to which Isabel went with 
her uncle, and where, with an untroubled conscience, and a 
heart full of faith in Heaven, she had been happy even before 
earthly love came to shed its light upon the scene ; but 
Grace had not an untroubled conscience or faith in Heaven, 
and her life was spent in vain and bitter regrets. Among 
these regrets, no penitent thought bewailed her ingratitude 
to God, — hers was the selfish sorrow of the world which 
worketh death, and her health failed rapidly under its in- 
fluence. Her form lost its roundness, and her cheeks 
grew hollow ; while the one bright spot upon them, her 
parched hands and fevered lips, would have betrayed but 
too surely to an experienced observer the approach of 
consumption. And now came the sick longing for one 
breath of her native air, one draught from the spring that 
bad quenched her thirst in childhood, and a still deeper 
longing for one soothing, tender word from the voice that 
had lulled her to her childhood’s sleep. These impulses 
were quickened by her perceiving with dismay how rapidly 
her store of this world’s wealth was diminishing. “ What 
will become of my Nanine, when all is gone ; and if I 
should die here alone and leave her to strangers? Oh 
God ! preserve me for my child ! let me place her on the 
bosom on which my own childhood was pillowed !” 

The mother in her heart had led her to the creature’s 
best refuge in sorrow and in danger — prayer, and with 
prayer came humility, and she wrote to the friends from 
whom she had hitherto been most desirous to conceal the 
mise 7 into which obedience to her own vain and selfish 


250 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


impulses had plunged her. She wrote to Isabel and to hei 
aunt, Miss Elliot : “ Come to me ! oh come tome! that I 
may place my child in your arms before I die !” was her 
despairing cry. 

Miss Elliot, or Aunt Nancy as we prefer to call her, be- 
cause we think the appellation harmonizes better with her 
kindly character, was making a visit of a few weeks to 
Isabel, as she had done every summer since her marriage, 
when these letters from Grace were received. Not a mo- 
ment was lost in deliberation. On that very day Mr. Fal- 
coner wrote to New York to engage accommodations for 
Aunt Nancy and himself on board of the first packet that 
should sail from that port for Havre. Isabel he had con- 
vinced, against her pleadings and her heart, that she had a 
more difficult duty to perform — to be still and wait the 
event. All the necessities of the case would be met by 
Miss Elliot and himself, and her children could neither be 
left with propriety nor taken on so long a voyage with so 
little preparation as their hurried movements would permit; 
For the first time Isabel yielded to his wishes with reluc- 
tance. She and her aunt wept together over the sad tran- 
script of the sorrows of Grace, yet in the midst of her tears 
Aunt Nancy lost not her faith. 

“ She is the child of prayer,” she said, “ and I felt that 
God would not leave her to herself. If He be bringing 
her back to Himself, as well as to us, though it be by a 
painful road, I will bless Him for it.” 

The sailing of the August packet from New York for 
Havre, was delayed for nearly a week by a gale of wind, 
and the voyage was longer than the average of voyages at 
that season. To poor Grace, who had counted each day, 
almost each hour, that must pass, before she could receive 
a letter, this delay was agony. She rose in the morning 
with .he confident expectation that some response to the 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


251 


appeal which it had so humbled her pride and torn her 
heart to make, would come to her that day. As the day 
wore on, expectation grew fainter with the lapse of every 
hour, until the evening found her exhausted by agitating 
emotions — sick from hope deferred — with only strength 
enough to weep over her child, and pray that she might 
be spared for the possibilities of another day. She was 
thus engaged one evening, when whispering voices on the 
stairs leading to her apartments, which were on the third 
story, attracted her attention. She listened with painful 
intentness, and cautious as were the whispers, her ear, 
sharpened by disease and anxiety, distinguished familiar 
tones. She bounded to the door, threw it open, and, with 
a voice that thrilled every hearer, called, “ Here ! here ! 
Aunt Nancy.” 

The words were followed by a choking sound, which 
alarmed Mr. Falconer, and he sprang forward, leaving 
Miss Elliot to ascend alone from the last landing-place. 
When he reached Grace, she was leaning, apparently un- 
conscious, against the doorway, and a crimson stream was 
issuing slowly from her lips, and falling over her white gown. 

When Grace was restored to the full perception of all 
around her, she found herself in the resting-place for which 
she had so longed — her aunt’s arms — while at her side stood 
a physician, one of the most highly esteemed in Paris, 
who had attended her in former days, but whom she had 
not dared to employ of late, lest his fees should exhaust 
her small store before aid could come to her from home. 
Mr. Falconer was seated at the foot of the bed, with the 
weeping Nanine in his arms, whom he was soothing with 
the tenierest pity. Grace turned her eyes slowly and lan- 
guidly around, as if seeking for some one whom she hoped 
to see ; and then, raising her hand feebly, held it to Mr 
Falconer, and in low tones breathed forth, “ Isabel.” 


252 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


Mr. Falconer drew near her with Nanine still in his 
arms, and affectionately clasping the hand she had offered 
him, said, “We could not both come, dear Grace ; and 
Isabel consented to let me come with her aunt because she 
believed I could be more serviceable to her, and to you, 
than she could be ; but her heart is with you.” 

Under skilful medical treatment, and tended with unti- 
ring love, Grace seemed for a time to amend rapidly ; yet 
her physician early declared, that though there might be 
amendment, there could not be recovery in her case. 

“ We can only patch her up now,” he said to Mr. Fal- 
coner, “ and when that is done, her best hope is from change 
of climate : you must take her to Italy.” 

But the constant cry of Grace was, “ Take me home ! 
Oh, take me home !” 

It was many weeks before it was possible to remove her 
at all ; but these were precious weeks to Grace, and to 
those who loved her so tenderly. With the quick percep- 
tion, we had almost said the intuition, which is sometimes 
evident in those who are approaching the spiritual world, 
she had divined the opinion which her physician was cau- 
tious never to express in her hearing. Grace had said be- 
fore, to others and to herself, “I shall die ;” but she had 
never believed it before ; and it is a fearful thing to be- 
lieve, while the heart, driven from earth, can yet find no 
rest above. Who can paint the bitterness of that self- 
reproach, with which she now looked back upon the sacri- 
fices she had made to that insatiate craving for admiration 
and affection, for the first place in* every circle and in 
every heart, which had been the bane of her life ? She 
had sinned against her own purest and deepest affections. 
She had wasted her wealth and exhausted the very springs 
of her life, in her efforts to win the plaudits of the thought- 
less and selfish crowds who had already forgotten her, and 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


253 


for whose remembrance she had no desire. Had Grace 
been brought back to her early associations while life 
and its impulses were still strong within her ; had she then 
been shut up as it were to the conversation and communion 
of persons as deeply imbued with religious feeling as those 
who now* were ministering to her with such devotion, it 
might well have been doubted whether her interest in the 
highest and holiest truths was not prompted, at least in 
part, by this very principle, which had so extended its 
ramifications through her whole nature, that it exerted its 
influence without her own consciousness, and made her 
whole life — her inner as well as outer life — a seeming, not 
a being. But Grace stood now in the presence of eternity. 
All the veils and semblances with which earth had clothed 
her spirit, covering it from her own cognition, were falling 
from her ; and dismayed at the view of herself, she sought 
on every side, with earnestness, yet almost with despair, 
for some regenerating influence, some rest for her perturb- 
ed conscience and agitated heart. And now she felt the 
full blessing of such friends as her gentle and pious aunt, 
and of one so faithful, so fearless, yet so tender as Mr. Fal- 
coner. Day by day, the truths taught in her childhood, 
and never wholly obliterated from her mind, were brought 
by their judicious presentation of them, into nearer contact 
with her heart ; and her heart yielded to their empire. 
Grace became watchful over herself ; anxious most of all 
to satisfy the demands of her awakened conscience, to 
please Him who seeth the inmost recesses of the heart, 
and to live in commtinion of soul with the Divine Saviour 
of men. 

When Grace left Paris in January, she looked out from 
the windows of her carriage upon its splendid palaces, ita 
showy shops, its gay gardens and Boulevards, — the scenes 
jjf her most brilliant and triumphant hours, — with a serene 

22 


254 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


countenance and an untroubled heart. She would not 
have exchanged one hour of that blessed calm, which faith 
and love had diffused through her soul, for another life, 
longer than her past had been, of such vain triumphs and 
restless gayety ; restless, because ever seeking and never 
finding — grasping at pleasures which, like Dead Sea fruits, 
fell to ashes at her touch. 

The physicians who had been consulted by Mr. Falconer 
had all assured him that it was very desirable to avoid 
taking Grace into a cold latitude, if he would gratify what 
seemed to be her strongest earthly wish — to die at home. 
He had accordingly, with great effort, procured a good 
vessel to sail in January directly for Savannah. As soon 
as the day of their sailing was appointed, he wrote to Isa- 
bel, communicating their arrangements, and requesting 
her to set out for Oakdale — the name of her early home — 
as soon as possible after receiving his letter. “ Come, my 
dear wife,” he wrote, “ and bring our children with you, 
if you can. I long to hold you all once more to my heart, 
my impatient heart ; yet I cannot leave this dear Grace — 
who becomes every hour dearer and lovelier — while she 
needs me.” 

It will not be doubted that Isabel complied with this re- 
quest ; she was only too happy to have his sanction for 
obeying the impulses of her own heart. She was at Oak- 
dale ten days before Mr. Falconer ; they were days full 
of sad memories and sadder anticipations, yet they could 
not be altogether dark to one who held unfalteringly her 
faith in Heaven, and whose heart the glad voices of her 
children and the assurance of her husband’s love still ex- 
panded with emotions of grateful joy. A week was busily 
employed in directing and superintending the arrangements 
for the reception and comfort of the beloved sufferer. 
Again the room which Aunt Nancy had taken such pleas. 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


255 


ure in preparing for Grace five years before, was made 
ready for her. Isabel recalled with a thrill of the tender 
est love the least fancy of her young and unsophisticatec 
taste. The furniture she had preferred was placed again 
in that apartment, the vases on the old-fashioned carved 
wooden mantelpiece were filled with the flowers she best 
loved ^ for it was now late in February — in Georgia a 
season of flowers — when orange-trees and myrtles, jessa- 
mines and roses, make the air “redolent of peifume.” 
When all had been done which affection could suggest, to 
gratify the taste or minister to the comfort of the loved 
one, Isabel closed the door of that pleasant room, and sat 
long there conjuring up visions of the past ; of the years 
in which she had played or studied there by day or slept 
by night with Grace. She thought of the beautiful, affec- 
tionate, but capricious child, over every hour of whose 
sunny life love had spread the shelter of his wings ; she 
remembered how they had wept together in their first sor- 
row, how they had gone forth together from their home, 
saddened, yet with a boundless hope of a future — better, 
nobler, more joyous than the past — brooding in their young 
hearts ; and then an image of a face flushed with the ex- 
citement and distorted by the evil passions of the gamester 
flashed for a moment before her, and was followed by that 
of a pale, drooping invalid, in loneliness and want, folding 
to her bosom, in mingled grief and love, her last blessing — 
her child. 

“ And I — I have never known want or sorrow,” cried 
Isabel, with streaming tears ; forgetting for the moment 
that life had presented to her, too, a cup of bitterness 
which, had she turned* as Grace had done, to the world for 
comfort, might have proved to her, too, a cup of death. 

From such visions Isabel was called to receive a gentle- 
man. It was Walter Stuart. Walter Stuart’s intimacy 


256 


TWO LIVES : OR. 


with Mr. Falconer had continued without interruption ; 
and when the interests of the profession to which he now 
seemed entirely devoted, had withdrawn him from Virginia 
to a distant frontier fort, they had kept up by letters that 
interchange of thought and feeling which is essential to 
the activity of friendship. On one subject Walter Stuart 
never spoke, or wrote to any. He had never been known 
to name Grace since her marriage ; and none, sa\ e Mr. 
Falconer, had courage to press on the stern, cold man he 
had become, any subject which he desired to avoid. Mr. 
Falconer, however, always communicated to him any in- 
telligence of more than ordinary interest respecting Grace. 

“ His silence is from a morbid feeling,” he said to Is- 
abel, who expressed her surprise at this, “ and a true 
friend should not encourage him in its indulgence. Be- 
sides, he cannot exercise true Christian forgiveness to- 
wards Grace, without feeling an interest in her well- 
being.” 

In accordance with these views, Mr. Falconer had writ- 
ten to his friend on the eve of his sailing from America, 
acquainting him with his intended voyage and its cause, 
and as soon as the tedious, and in such cases most painful 
formalities of his profession rendered practicable, Walter 
Stuart had hastened to Virginia — to Isabel, from whom he 
was assured of receiving the latest intelligence. Isabel 
had already set out for Oakdale when he arrived at Belle- 
vue, and he followed her. 

It was the afternoon of a sunny day in the last week oi 
February, when scarce the lightest chill from winter’s 
parting breath lingered on the balmy air, that the carriage 
which bore Grace to her home entered the wide avenue 
leading to it. For the last two or three miles every object 
had touched some link of that “ electric chain wherewith 
we are darkly bound.” The rustling of the breeze through 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


257 


the dark forest of pines which forms so marked a feature 
of the scenery on the seacoast of Georgia — the odor of 
the wild myrtle and the jessamine — the sight of some tree, 
remembered from her childhood for its fantastic shape 
— some familiar turn in the road, caused her at every 
instant to cry out, “ My home ! my own dear home !” 
but when she entered the avenue, when the flashing river 
and its verdant banks, the trees which had shadowed 
her childish sports, and the house in which she had first 
entered life, and where she had passed life’s golden days, 
lay before her, she could only stretch out her arms towards 
these beloved objects as if to clasp them to her heart in 
/ speechless delight — a delight that bordered upon agony. 
The carriage stopped. It had been seen as it came slowly 
on through the avenue, and the yard was filling fast with 
an anxious crowd who wrung their hands in silent sorrow, 
while tears streamed down many of their dark faces, as 
they gazed from a distance on the pale, thin form that lay, 
supported by pillows, in a corner of the carriage. Isabel, 
dreading all excitement for Grace, had prevented their 
nearer approach. “ Miss Grace” — for she was still Miss 
Grace to them — “ will see you all,” she promised ; “ but 
you must wait till she is rested ;” and they waited without 
a murmur, for they loved her. Isabel herself did not ap- 
proach the carriage, though her heart bounded as if it 
would burst from its prison, when she looked upon her 
husband. Mr. Falconer lifted Grace in his arms, and 
bearing her into the house, laid her on a sofa in the parlor. 
She had fainted, and while Miss Elliot bent over her with 
the restoratives which she was careful to have always at 
hand, Mr. Falconer turned to clasp Isabel for one moment 
to his bosom, to ask for his children, and to send up an as- 
piration of praise to Him who had preserved these blessings 
for him in his absence. 


22 * 


258 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


When the eyes of Grace unclosed, Isabel’s tears were 
falling on her face. 

“ Oh, Isabel ! it is such joy — too much — to be at home ! 
But where is Nanine ?” 

As Grace spoke, she turned her head to look for her 
child, and saw a tall form just gliding beyond the range of 
her vision. Her face flushed for an instant ; and seeming 
to forget her desire to see Nanine, she lay quite still for 
several minutes, then suddenly looking at Isabel, said, “ Is 
any gentleman Jiere besides Mr. Falconer V 7 Isabel hesi- 
tated, and Grace felt that there was. “ Is it Walter 
Stuart?” she asked in a whisper,. while the blood rushed 
again to her temples. 

Isabel saw it was too late for concealment, and with a 
trembling heart she answered by another question, “ Can 
you see him, Grace V 7 

Walter Stuart stood near, all coldness, all sternness 
gone, with a pale face and quivering limbs attesting his 
agitation. He heard no sound from Grace, and did not 
dare to stir, till a sign from Isabel invited his approach. 
He advanced, and bending over Grace in silence — a 
silence more expressive than words — he pressed one long 
kiss upon her brow. Not a word was said of forgiveness, 
of reconciliation — there was no allusion to the past, their 
hearts were one again ; each felt all, knew all that was in 
the other’s heart, without the intervention of words. Death, 
the great peacemaker, was near them. Once only, Grace 
looked doubtfully and timidly upon him — it was when 
Nanine drew near. He read her feelings, and taking the 
beautiful child in his arms, he held her to his bosom, kissed 
her tenderly, and said, “ You will give her to me, Grace.” 

“Will you love her, Walter?” cried Grace, while an 
expression of perfect joy beamed from her eyes : “ Now, 
all my desires are granted, and I can indeed die in peace.” 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


259 


Thus supported and soothed by the tenderest love, did 
Grace fade gently away. No hireling approached her, 
even to perform the most menial offices ; they were labors 
of love from the servants, who had grown up in her father’s 
nouse. Maum Hagar, for whom she early inquired, had 
gone at last to the rest for which she longed. 

And Grace soon followed her. It was a rest to her, too, 
short as her life had been. It was in Walter Stuart’s 
arms, with her head resting on his bosom, that she passed 
away. Aunt Nancy and Isabel clasped her cold hands, 
while Mr. Falconer knelt beside her, uttering in her failing 
car the promises of a Father’s love, and the tender en- 
couragements of our Saviour, to which the pressure of her 
fingers feebly responded to the last. She died with a smile 
upon her lips, which seemed to those around her the smile 
of welcome to some angelic visitant. Walter Stuart con- 
tinued to support her till long after she had ceased to 
breathe, and when he laid Her from his arms, he pressed 
one long kiss upon her pale lips and marble brow ; and 
turning away, left the room without uttering a sound. He 
went to his own apartment, and there, alone, the smothered 
agony of years burst forth in sobs, which shook his frame 
almost to dissolution. 

Again Isabel stood within the family burial-place at 
Oakdale, to which her last visit had been made in company 
with her who now lay beside the father she had mourned 
so bitterly that day. The remembrance hushed Isabel’s 
sobs, which Mr. Falconer, on whose arm she leaned, had 
vainly sought to still. 

“ Why should we grieve,” her heart whispered, “ that 
she has passed from the sorrows of earth to eternal joy ?” 

But a few weeks had passed since the loved one Had 
Deen laid there, yet violets were already blooming on her 
grave. Isabel plucked one of them, and seemed about to 


260 


TWO LIVES : OR, 


yield to Mr. Falconer’s gentle efforts to draw her from the 
sad scene ; but overcome by a sudden rush of recollections, 
she broke from his restraining arm, and casting herself on 
her knees beside the green hillock that marked her cousin’s 
last resting-place, covered its sod with tears and kisses. 
With gentle force Mr. Falconer lifted her from the earth, 
and bore, rather than led her, beyond the enclosure, and 
soothed her with the tenderness of the husband and the 
consoling words of the Christian teacher. As they walked 
homewards they passed the young Nanine and Elliot at 
play in a grove within whose shade Isabel and Grace had 
often sported. Isabel stopped to kiss the children, and as 
she laid her hand upon the golden curls of Nanine, and 
looked into a face singularly like her mother’s, a fervent 
prayer arose from her heart that her life might be ruled by 
purer principles. 

The next day Mr. Falconer and Isabel and their children 
set out for the home in which his mother awaited them with 
patient, yet longing affection. Walter Stuart lingered a 
few days longer at Oakdale with Nanine, who was already 
tenderly attached to him, and whose affection seemed his 
best earthly consolation. He visited New York on his way 
to his post, and Mrs. Stuart’s heart once more rejoiced in 
the confidence and sympathy of her son ; for sorrow had 
softened and purified the nature which a proud stoicism had 
stiffened almost into stone. Nanine had been left by her 
mother to his guardianship and that of Mr. Falconer ; with 
a request that she might remain at Oakdale with Miss 
Elliot while she lived, and if she were still unmarried at 
her death, that her home should be with Isabel. Oakdale, 
therefore, is still the abode of a young and hopeful heart ; 
and Aunt Nancy has still an object for the exercise of her 
kindly affections. A cheerful serenity sits upon her brow, 
though her fondly-loved Grace is never forgotten. Often 


TO SEEM AND TO BE. 


26 


the young Nanine wonders, as her good aunt whom she so 
dearly loves, after gazing with tender sadness in her face 
for several minutes, suddenly clasps her in her arms and 
fondly kisses her. At such times Aunt Nancy’s neart 
ascends in fervent prayer, that she may be endued with 
wisdom to lead the affections of her young charge heaven- 
ward, to teach her to “ prize, not the honor which cometh 
from man, but that which cometh from God only.” 

Mr. Elliot has never resumed business, though his credit- 
ors made so liberal a settlement with him, that about ten 
thousand dollars was saved irom the wreck of his splendid 
fortune. He would have given this to Isabel in return for 
the still larger sum taken from her, but it was declined both 
by Mr. Falconer and herself. Mr. Elliot has, therefore, a 
support independent of his wife’s dowry. He has establish- 
ed himself comfortably and pleasantly in the neighborhood 
of Marion, and not far from Isabel, and his latter years are 
happier in their attentions and the affection of their children, 
than was his earlier life in all that display which excited 
the* world’s envy. Mrs. Elliot spends the spring and 
autumn with him, but much of the winter he passes with 
his sister in Georgia, and she is then enjoying the life she 
loves, in New York or Washington. In summer she is 
again absent for two or three months at fashionable water- 
ing-places, or other resorts of the gay, and Mr. Elliot can- 
not accompany her, for that is his season of greatest enjoy- 
ment at home — the season that brings all he loves together, 
for then Aunt Nancy and Nanine make their yearly visit 
to Isabel. Pleasant is that visit, for in Isabel’s home, under 
the guardianship of the high and holy principles which Mr. 
Falconer practises .as well as teaches, and which have 
been her own sure guides through life, dwell ever the 
generous sympathies and gentle affections which make an 
earthly home a type of heaven. There truth abides ; and 


262 


TWO LIVES. 


one of the first lessons impressed on the youthful mind, 
is, “ Whatsoever thou doest, do it as unto God and noi 
unto men,” and whatsoever thou art, be it and do not 

SEEM it. 


THE END. 



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